
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap.TPZ-3Copyright No. 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 







MISS ERIN. 






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MISS ERIN. 


A NOVEL. 


BY 


M. E. FRANCIS. 

(Mrs. Francis blundell.) 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago ; 

BENZIOFR BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See^ 

1898. 


I 


177 55 


Copyright, 1898, 

BY 

Benziger Brothers. 



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2nd COPY, 
1893 . 


To 

K. M. S 

THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY 


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CONTENTS. 


PART L—SEED TIME. 


CHAPTER I. 

A Legacy, - 9 

CHAPTER II. 

Round the Turf Fire, - - - - - 26 

CHAPTER III. 

Daddy Pat” and “ Mammie,” - - - "37 

CHAPTER IV. 

Uncle and Niece, 46 

CHAPTER V. 

Transplantation and Education, - - - - 54 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Sword of Damocles, - - - - - 71 

CHAPTER VII. 

Desolate, 82 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Father Lalor is Promoted, ----- 92 

CHAPTER IX. 

Erin the Mother, and Erin the Child, - - - loi 

CHAPTER X. 

Authorship and Its Consequences, - - - 109 

CHAPTER XI. 

Fellow Travellers, 118 


7 


CONTENTS. 


PART IT— HARVEST. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Strange News, ------ 

- I3I 

CHAPTER II. 

Erin a Landlord, 

I4I 

CHAPTER III. 

Mark Wimbourne, ----- 

- 147 

CHAPTER IV. 

Babylon, 

- - 158 

CHAPTER V. 

A Battle, - - 

- 164 

CHAPTER VI. 

Burying the Hatchet, - - - - 

■ 175 

CHAPTER VII. 

Love’s Young Dream, - - - - 

- 194 

CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Twixt Cup and Lip,” - - - . 

213 

CHAPTER IX. 

Mischief, - - - - - - - 

- 231 

CHAPTER X. 

A Rescuing Party, - - - - 

248 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Irish Joan of Arc, - - . - 

- 261 

CHAPTER XII. 

After the Fray, ----- 

270 

CHAPTER XIIL 

Antigone, 

- 278 

EPILOGUE. 

Aftermath, ------ 

- 288 


MISS ERIN. 


PART I.— SEED TIME. 

CHAPTER I. 

A LEGACY. 

u J S this the place, I wonder?” thought the solitary 
wayfarer. God help us! Of all the lonesome, 
God-forsaken spots! ” 

He had raised his head, hitherto bent downwards 
in the effort to advance in the teeth of a cutting 
October wind, and now paused, looking about him 
irresolutely. It was a desolate place, certainly, this 
low square house, as seen from the rickety gate near 
which the traveller stood; a house which had once 
been white, but which was now weather-stained into 
an indefinable hue, battered by the elements, un- 
speakably forlorn, a pair of mock windows staring 
from the upper story blankly, like wide-open eyes 
in a dead face. Near the gate, a few almost leafless 
oaks and beeches writhed in the wind, and close to 
the house the grass-grown slope was thickly studded 
with gloomy, gigantic fir-trees. The path was over- 
grown with moss, the low wall separating the en- 
closure from the road broken down in many places; 
a lean, miserable-looking cow was cropping the rank 


• 10 


A LEGACY. 


grass languidly, but no other sign of life was appar- 
ent, not even a squirrel in the branches, not a wander- 
ing clutch of chickens. 

''Well — in the name o’ God!” said the traveller, 
heaving a sigh. He wrapped his great frieze coat 
closer around the bundle in his arms and lifted the 
rusty latch, uttering an exclamation of disgust as 
the gate, which had been insecurely supported by 
broken hinges, fell flat on the ground. 

" There doesn’t come many visitors here. I’ll be 
bound,” he muttered, stooping awkwardly to restore 
it to its place; "an’ no wonder! I’ll be glad when 
I’m out of it myself.” 

Having propped it up again, he went on his way 
slowly, looking cautiously to right and to left as 
though he expected some enemy to spring on him 
from the shelter of the fir-trees. At last he stood 
before the porch, and once more scanned the house; 
hot a ray of light, no sign or sound of any living 
thing. 

" Is there any one in it at all? ” he said to himself; 
and then, plucking up his courage, he pulled vigor- 
ously at the bell, proceeding after a moment or two 
to thump the door sturdily with his heavy fist; 
repeating this operation at intervals with increasing 
energy as he grew exasperated by the delay. 

At last steps were heard approaching, a variety 
of bolts were withdrawn, and after much rattling and 
fumbling, the lock shot back and the door opened. 

A woman’s face peered out into the rapidly- 
increasing dusk; ghost-like, as seen thus against the 
background of absolutely dark passage. 


A LEGACY. 


11 


Go away! ’’ she cried sharply. WeVe nothing 
for you — we never encourage tramps here.’’ 

Thank ye kindly, ma’am/’ responded the traveller 
warmly, it’s time enough for ye to talk that way 
when I ask for anything. I’ve nothin’ at all to say 
to you, ma’am, but I’d be obliged to Mr. Fitzgerald 
if he’d step here a minute.” 

‘‘ Aha, that’s the usual story,” retorted the woman; 
but you’ll not find it easy to take in my master, 
I can tell you. If you will take my advice, you’ll 
clear out of this before he catches ye and gets ye 
taken up for a vagabond.” 

Keep a civil tongue in your head, if you plaze,” 
cried the other, drawing himself up with dignity, 
an’ tell your master that Michael Dooley, Misther 
Michael Dooley of Lincoln Creek, California, United 
States of America, ’ud be glad of a word with him. 
An’ I guess you’d best -tell him I’ve got something 
for him.” 

Something for him! ” echoed the housekeeper in 
astonishment. What’s your name, do you say? ” 

'' Misther Michael Dooley,” repeated the owner of 
that title with great gravity. Ask him to be quick, 
if you plaze — I’ll have to be makin’ tracks.” 

After a moment’s reflection, the woman apparently 
decided that he was not an impostor, and though 
she first took the precaution of closing the door in 
his face, she departed willingly enough to do his er- 
rand. Presently the door opened again just suffi- 
ciently wide to admit of another face being thrust 
through the aperture. A man’s face, this time, pallid 
and keen-featured, with bright eyes set near together 


12 


A LEGACY. 


under black brows; so much Dooley could see even 
in the fast-fading light. 

'' I don’t know your name,” said the newcomer 
suspiciously. '' What do you want with me? ” 

Tve brought ye somethin’ from California, sir,’^ 
replied Dooley, gruffly, affl I’ll thank ye to let me 
in to hand it over, an’ not leave me coolin’ my heels 
all night on this blasted ould doorstep — now! ” 

'' What have you brought me? ” asked Fitzgerald, 
opening the door a little wider. 

I’ve got a letther for ye from your brother in 
California, that he wrote when he was dying. It’s 
about a small legacy he’s left ye. He asked me to 
see an’ give it to ye with my own hands, because he 
knew I was cornin’ over for a while to the ould 
counthry. ‘ Mike,’ says he, so pitiful, ‘ will ye pass 
me your word to take it safe? ’ ' I will,’ says I, an’ 

so here I am.” 

So Gerald is dead? ” said the old man, with per- 
fect unconcern. '' Only lately, too? Ha! I thought 
he died long ago. And he left me a legacy, did he? 
It won’t be worth much, I should think, coming from 
that quarter! However, we’ll see; hand over the 
letter.” 

'' Beggin’ your pardon, Misther Fitzgerald, my in- 
structions was to give ye the letther with my own 
hands an’ see ye read it. By your leave, then. I’ll 
step inside along with ye. A cat couldn’t see to read 
here.” 

He pushed open the door, and walked unceremoni- 
ously past Mr. Fitzgerald into the narrow hall. The 
latter hesitated for a moment, but presently calling 


A LEGACY. 


13 


for a light, pushed his visitor's burly figure on one 
side, and led the way into a small room on the right- 
hand side, which was apparently his private sanctum. 
A battered centre table, a few chairs, and a heavy 
mahogany writing-table, formed the only furniture of 
this retreat, unless one might include the piles of 
musty-smelling, dilapidated-looking books which 
were heaped up on the floor, and littered over chairs 
and tables. The plaster of the ceiling bulged out in 
many places and was deeply stained with damp, and 
here and there the sodden paper had peeled away 
from the wall. Through the curtainless windows the 
trees without could be seen distorting themselves in 
the violent blast. Dooley shuddered as he looked 
about him; never, he thought, had he seen such a 
dismal room. 

The letter, please," said Fitzgerald, recalling his 
attention by stretching out his hand. It was a cruel 
Jiand, long-fingered, bony, icy-cold to the other's 
touch. The face which presently bent over the 
unfolded paper was a cruel face, too, yet with a cer- 
tain remnant of beauty in it, even a faint resemblance 
to the poor dead brother who had been the travellers 
friend. 

For a moment or two nothing was heard save the 
crackling of the letter and the shriek and moaning of 
the wind through the creaking boughs outside; but 
presently, with a muttered exclamation, Fitzgerald 
crumpled up the paper in his hand and turned 
fiercely on the visitor. 

‘‘ What is the meaning of it? " he cried. 

With curiously fumbling fingers, and a sudden 


14 


A LEGACY. 


flush on his bronzed cheeks, Dooley began to undo 
the wrappings of the bundle in his arms. First an old 
cloak was removed, and then a knitted shawl, and 
at last, drawing carefully aside sundry folds of flannel, 
he showed Fitzgerald — a little child’s sleeping face. 
A flne babe about six months old, with long black 
lashes lying on its round cheek, and silky dusky down 
just visible under its shabby bonnet. 

'' This is your legacy, sir,” said Dooley, with a 
quaver in his voice. ‘‘ The only child of your dead 
brother. Its mother died just after it was born, an’ 
poor Misther Gerald himself only lived long 
enough to see it christened and give it his blessiiT 
and bid me take it to you. It’s your own flesh and 
blood, Misther Fitzgerald, your own darlin’ little 
niece, an orphan child with only you to look to in the 
wide world — for, for the sake o’ them that’s gone, 
ye’ll be a father to it? ” 

He paused, appalled at the expression of the 
other’s face. Poor little baby girl! if looks could kill, 
it would have been all over with her there and then. 
But, unconscious that her fate was under discussion, 
she slept placidly on, the tiny bosom rising and fall- 
ing, one minute hand lying open with wee fingers 
outspread on the flannel wrap. 

‘‘ To begin with,” said Fitzgerald, speaking at 
last with studied calmness, to begin with, I have 
no proof that this is my brother’s child, and if it were, 
what have I to do with it? Who was its mother — 
where are her people? What” — with gathering 
fury — '' what the devil do you bring the bantling to 
me for? ” 


A LEGACY. 


15 


“ Bedad, it is your brother’s child an’ no wan 
else’s, an’ isn''t the raison I’m bringin’ it to ye’ 
there in his letter plain enough? The poor little 
creature, if it had anywhere else to go it isn’t here 
I’d be lavin’ it, God help it! The mother w^as a poor 
slip of an orphan girl with ne’er a friend in the w^orld. 
She came out to the States thinkin’ to make her for- 
tune, but she couldn’t get on in service some way; 
an’ Misther Gerald came across her, and thought 
she’d maybe be gettin’ into throuble out there, an’ 
so he married her to keep her out of harm’s way. 
An’ afther a couple o’ years the little wan was born, 
an’ the wife died. Misther Gerald was very bad him- 
self before she went, an’ niver held up his head afther. 
He just lived, I may say, to take the little wan in his 
arms — ‘ Call her Erin,’ he says ” 

Here the other broke in with a sardonic laugh. 

‘‘Just like his tomfoolery! Yes, I now believe; 
from that that the child is his — no one but Gerald I 
Fitzgerald would have been capable of such idiocy. ! 
To marry a servant at fifty years of age — to call! 
his brat Erin, the fool ! — and then to try and palm 
it off on me! I never was on good terms with himj 
at the best of times, and after his doings in ’48 — | 
why, if by raising a finger I could have saved himj 
from transportation I would not have done so! 
There, take the brat away — Til have nothing to 
say to it! ” 

“ Glory be to God! ” ejaculated honest Michael 
Dooley, turning quite pale with alarm and disgust. 
“ What am I to do with the poor infant, then? Sure 
I have no way of keepin’ it. I’m a bachelor, so I am; 


16 


A LEGACY. 


sure I was hard set to get the poor child here at all — 
if it wasn’t for a woman coming over at the same 
time as myself I don’t know what I’d have done. Be- 
sides, I’m a poor man, sir, an’ ” 

Take it to the workhouse,” interrupted Fitzger- 
ald; '^that’s the proper place for it — the child of a 
convict and a beggar. Be off with it! ” 

’Deed, then. I’ll do no such thing!” shouted 
Dooley, indignantly. ‘‘Ye ought to be ashamed o’ 
yerself, ye black-hearted rogue. Is it send your own 
brother’s child to the workhouse? An’ castin’ up at 
the dead, God forgive ye — convict, indeed! Misther 
Gerald was a betther gentleman than you, sir. I’ll not 
be the wan to take his child to the workhouse. Ye’ 
may do the dirty job yerself, ye’ mean ould villain! 
There’s the child ” — laying his burden down gently 
on the table — “I done my duty in givin’ it into 
your care, an’ I wash my hands o’ the rest.” 

“ If you leave it here,” said the other, with cold 
fury, “ I shall fling it out of the window after you. 
I have nothing to say to it, I tell you, and refuse to 
have it in my house.’^ 

He laid hold of the poor little thing’s dress as he 
spoke, so roughly as to put an end even to the heavy 
sleep which Dooley’s fellow-passenger had, in pure 
kindness of heart, endeavored to insure by means 
of a certain soothing drug. 

The waxen lids were lifted, and a pair of large 
startled blue eyes looked round; the little mouth 
drooped, the tiny hands clenched themselves. The 
child was not yet sufficiently awake to cry, but these 


A LEGACY, 


17 


mute signs touched her whilom protector’s kind 
heart. 

‘‘ God help ye! ” he said; '' Td as soon leave ye in 
a wolfs den as here. Hand her over then. Til take 
her out o’ this for the night anyhow, but after that 
we’ll see if the law o’ the land won’t step in to make 
ye provide for your own flesh and blood.” 

Mr. Fitzgerald smiled without replying, and 
loosed his hold of the baby’s robe; and Dooley, 
tenderly wrapping it up again, prepared to depart; 
stooping suddenly, as his host preceded him with the 
light, to snatch up the letter which the latter had 
thrown on the floor. 

“ We’ll have the child’s credentials anyhow,” he 
observed, thrusting it into his breast pocket. 

Fitzgerald paused, as though to expostulate, but 
shrugged his shoulders after a moment and went on 
down the passage, opening the door very politely, 
and standing beside it while Dooley went out shiv- 
ering into the night air. 

I hope you’ll sleep well,” he observed, '' and that 
the infant won’t disturb you.” 

If it wasn’t for the blessed child in my arms. I’d 
knock ye into smithereens,” muttered Dooley, paus- 
ing to look round at the sardonic face grinning in the « 
lamplight; and then, controlling his rising anger with 
an effort, he went on down the slippery path among 
the fir-trees and out at the rickety gate; the wind, 
which had been apparently lying in wait for him, 
sweeping down on him as he emerged from the 
shelter of the trees, and driving him before it as he 
retraced his steps towards the station. 


18 


A LEGACY. 


A cold rain began to fall, too, and the poor fellow, 
tired, hungry, burdened with a terrible infant, which 
might at any moment awake and clamor for the un- 
attainable, was almost at his wits’ end. 

Presently he became aware of a figure advancing 
towards him, also struggling with the elements, a tall 
figure, of which only the lower limbs, partially envel- 
oped in a long coat were visible, the rest of the person 
being entrenched behind a huge open umbrella 
which came charging along the path at a prodigious 
rate, and the ferule of which came into violent con- 
tact with Dooley’s arm hastily flung out to protect 
the baby. 

“Mind out there!” he shouted. “Look where 
3^e’re goin’! ” knocking up the umbrella so violently 
that the owner’s hat went spinning into the road. 
“ Qh, be the powers! I ax your pardon, yer rever- 
ence, I didn’t see who was in it at all. I humbly beg 
your pardon.” 

The old priest picked up his hat good-humoredly, 
replaced it on his thick white locks, and adjusted the 
Roman collar, a glance at which had caused Dooley 
to become aware of his mistake. 

“ Well, my good man, you didn’t quite knock me 
» down, but you went very near it. It seems to be a 
word and a blow with you.” 

“ Why, then, indeed, sir, I have a way of rising 
my hand before I know where I am. I was afeard 
on account o’ the child here — that was wan thing 
that put me about.” 

“Oh, the child?” repeated the old man, endeav- 
oring to peer at him through the darkness. “ You 


A LEGACY. 


19 


have got a child there, have you? Well, well, one 
must make allowances for a father’s feelings.” 

Ah, yer reverence, this is no child of mine. The 
father, God be merciful to him, is in his grave this 
six months nearly, ay, an’ the mother too. Over 
beyant in California, sir. Ay, indeed! ” 

Let’s see,” said the priest, coming closer to him, 
'' I don’t seem to know your voice. What is your 
name, and who is this poor child? ” 

Michael Dooley gave his name and former address 
with precision and pride, and introduced the infant 
as the only child of one Gerald Fitzgerald of Glen- 
mor, in these parts, of whom his reverence might 
perchance have heard tell.” 

He had to — go out o’ the counthry afther ’48, 
ye know, sir. Ye’ll have heard of Fitzgerald’s Band, 
that time? He used to have the boys up in the hills, 

I believe, drillin’ them, an’ all sorts ” 

'' Gerald Fitzgerald! ” cried the other in deep emo- 
tion. '' Yes, indeed, I knew him — a fine lad, a fine, 
brave, generous, foolish lad! And so he is dead! 
May God have mercy on his soul! ” 

He stood still for a moment looking upwards, 
heedless of the driving rain and the blustering 
wind in which the umbrella bobbed aimlessly about, 
now forwards, now sideways. 

Where are you taking the child to?” he asked 
presently. 

''Where indeed, yer reverence? Fm afther takin’ 
her to that blasted — I ax yer pardon, sir — to that 
outrageous ould villain her uncle, sir, at Glenmor, 
beyant, an’ he bid m.e take the brat away to the work- 


20 


A LEGACY, 


house. Said he’d be the death of her if I left her. So 
what could I do but take her along with me again, 
and it’s at my wits’ ends I am to know what to do 
next. I’m expectin’ every minute she’ll be wakin’ 
up on me and callin’ out for a drink — and what’ll I 
do then? ” 

'' Haven’t you got a boat or a bottle or whatever 
they call the thing to feed her with, man? ” 

'' Not a thing, father, at all. There was a poor 
woman in the ship that looked after her for me 
cornin’ over, and previously to that a neighbor in 
the next ranch took her. I’m a bachelor myself, and 
’pon my word I couldn’t for the life o’ me tell how 
they managed — I think it’s a spoon Mrs. Murphy 

— that’s the woman that had her in the steamer — 
used to feed her with, but I never took any particular 
notice. I’ve never had anything to say to a child 
before — no, nor a woman, not sence my poor 
mother died — the Lord have mercy on her soul! — 
an’ it’s astray altogether I am now. Sure I thought 
as sure as I took her to her father’s people she’d be 
off my hands for good — an’ the uncle — her father’s 
own brother serves me this dirty trick! What in the 
world ’ill I do, your reverence? ” 

The priest who, little as he understood the position 
of affairs, shared the honest fellow’s perplexity and 
indignation, could not help being amused neverthe- 
less. He was beginning some laughing rejoinder 
when Miss Erin, roused by the cold air and the eager 
voices, waked up thoroughly this time — stretched 

— and began to utter loud and imperative cries. 

“ Come to my house! ” cried the old priest, for the 


A LEGACY. 


21 


nonce as dismayed as Erin’s protector. We’ll find 
you some milk and a spoon there, anyhow; and 
there’s my housekeeper, Moll Riddick, she’s a host 
in herself. She'll know what to do! ” 

Off set the two men at a brisk trot, the perspira- 
tion starting out on Dooley’s forehead in the inten- 
sity of his anxiety, and the priest endeavoring to 
hold the umbrella over the child, and uttering at the 
same time disjointed pieces of advice to her bearer, 
his long experience in christenings rendering him an 
authority on such matters. 

Hold her up, man — up against your shoulder — 
don’t smother her, you know. Now, pat her gently 
on the back — gently! Don’t hammer the poor little 
thing as if she was a two-penny nail.” 

'' Och, be the powers! ” groaned Dooley. If ever 
I let myself in for this sort of work again.” 

Meanwhile, in spite of their united exertions, little 
Erin wailed, and bobbed her hapless head against 
Michael’s rough coat, and beat the air with furious 
feeble hands. At last they arrived, all equally 
breathless, at the priest’s house, and entered a warm, 
bright parlor; a small boy, with a rough head and 
a queer freckled face hastily appearing in answer to 
his master’s summons. 

'' Fetch a cup of milk and a teaspoon, Patsy — run 
for your life! And where’s Moll Riddick? Tell her 
she’s wanted at once! ” 

She’s stepped down beyant to the shop,” re- 
turned Patsy; '' she said she’d be back soon.” 

''Dear, dear, everything is against us!” groaned 
his master. " Well, fetch the milk anyhow, Pat. 


22 


A LEGACY, 


Now, Michael Dooley, my poor fellow, you must do 
the best you can yourself. Sit down there in that 
chair and take off the child’s cloak! Man alive, don’t 
haul at the strings like that. A baby’s neck, you 
know — there isn’t much of it at the best of times, 
and what there is, isn’t very solid. That’s it — make 
her sit up on your knee. Now, here’s the milk — 
hold the cup lower, Patsy — now! ” 

The big old white-haired man stooped, resting his 
hands on his knees and bending his face till it was 
almost on a level with that of the child, who, pacified 
for the moment, sat blinking at the cup in apparently 
pleasant anticipation. Patsy, on the other side, hold- 
ing the milk at a convenient angle, watched oper- 
ations with equal surprise and interest. The excite- 
ment of both onlookers indeed became breathless, 
when Dooley, purple in the face, and with his eyes 
almost starting out of his head, seized the spoon with 
clumsy shaking fingers and endeavored to prize 
the baby’s mouth open much as if it had been an 
oyster. 

After one moment’s pause of unutterable indigna- 
tion it is needless to say that the said little round 
mouth opened to its fullest extent, and that a series 
of piercing shrieks rewarded Dooley’s well-meant 
endeavors. 

God bless us, man! what do you think the child’s 
made of?*” cried the priest, hardly less disturbed. 
'' ’Pon my word! I’d make a better hand of it myself. 
Give me that spoon — now, hold her steady.” 

Michael humbly and in deep confusion surrendered 
the spoon, and his reverence going down on his knees 


A LEGACY, 


23 


once more tendered it to the baby, his own mouth 
tightly screwed up, and his eyes showing wide with 
anxiety through his big silver-mounted glasses. 

There was a short silence in the room, broken only 
by the clink of the spoon against the glass; but 
presently Miss Erin Fitzgerald’s toes were seen to 
kick and wriggle under her frock, and her tiny hands 
clenched themselves, and all at once, back went the 
little dark head against Dooley’s supporting hand, 
and screams resounded through the room. 

There was a pause at length, and then Michael ob- 
served diffidently, Ye’re afther spiffin’ a lot on her 
frock, yer reverence, mfy hand’s quite wet ” — and 
then in a lower tone, ‘‘ I think the most of the milk 
went that way — I — I don’t think she got any of it 
at all!” 

The dismayed silence which ensued was broken by 
the sound of hasty feet, and Moll Riddick, the house- 
keeper, entered the room, starting back rigid with 
astonishment at the scene before her. 

‘Mn the name of Heaven! Father Lalor, will ye 
tell me the meaning of this? Whose child is that, an’ 
what’s it doin’ here in the best parlor? ” 

Oh, woman dear, this is no time for questions! ” 
returned her master in distracted tones. Take the 
child and see if you can’t get her to swallow some 
of that milk, or else she’ll be having a fit before our 
eyes.” 

Miss Riddick, being a good-hearted woman, and 
not more tyrannical than the generality of priests’ 
housekeepers, sat down with a muttered remon- 
strance, but stretched out her arms willingly enough 


24 


A LEGACY. 


for the child, which Dooley almost flung into them. 
It was true that she had never hitherto tried to feed 
a baby, but she was a first-rate hand at cramming 
young turkeys, and therefore set about her present 
task with the confidence born of long experience in 
the management of callow things. 

Obviously, when a chick of any kind is to be fed, 
and it is obliging enough of its own accord to open 
its mouth, it would be foolish indeed not to profit by 
such an opportunity of putting something into it. 
Therefore, when Erin once more renewed the ex- 
postulations, interrupted for a few moments by want 
of breath. Miss Riddick proceeded to ladle in the 
milk with so much speed and deftness that not only 
were the cries immediately put an end to, but the 
little creature’s life narrowly escaped the same fate. 

Dooley uttered a kind of howl, followed by a fine 
round oath, which Father Lalor was too much pre- 
occupied to reprove. Indeed, his own consternation 
and wrath were almost equal to that of his visitor, 
and darting across the room he possessed himself of 
the choking child, announcing in indignant tones 
that he was not goii g to stay there and see it 
murdered. 

It was at this moment, the uproar and confusion 
being at its height, that Patsy, always intelligent and 
prompt in emergencies, made a suggestion which not 
only called forth the gratitude of the assembled com- 
pany, but influenced the whole of Erin Fitzgerald’s 
subsequent career. 

‘‘ If yez ’cud take her down to our little place,” he 
remarked, '' my mother ’ud soon pacify her. The 


A LEGACY. 


25 


littlest of them at home is about as big as this wan — 
there’s always little wans at our place, an’ my mother 
never has them shoutin’ that way.” 

'' Pat, my boy, you have more wisdom than any of 
us,” cried the priest, joyfully. “ Run on and tell her 
we’re coming. Now, Moll Riddick, see if you can 
carry this child without hurting it or dropping it — 
where’s its cloak? Come, Moll, distinguish yourself 
— Faith! what’s the use of being a woman if you 
don’t know how to handle a baby? ” 

'' It’s the contrariest little creature I ever had a 
hoult of,” grumbled Moll; '‘an’ it’s enough to drive 
a body demented to hear it screechin’.” 

" Never mind, Mary Nolan will put a stop to all 
that! Come along, Mr. Dooley; now, Moll, lead the 
way.” 


CHAPTER 11. 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


A FTER a few minutes’ brisk walking, the little 
procession came to a village, the three tiny 
shops, which were its chief boast, brave with lights, 
while here and there down the irregular street an 
occasional gleam shone out from some cottage door 
or window. But Moll Riddick, closely followed by 
the priest and Dooley stalked on without pausing 
till she came to a small cottage about a hundred 
yards from the rest of the hamlet. Its whitewashed 
walls were clearly defined in the dusk, while from the 
open doorway issued a stream of ruddy light, bright- 
ening even the closely-cropped hedge which seemed 
to enclose a tiny garden. On the threshold in the 
middle of this light stood the figure of a little woman, 
who rushed to meet her visitors as soon as she caught 
sight of them, and almost snatched the wailing child 
out of Moll’s arms. 

'' God help you, my poor innocent lamb; what are 
they doing to you? ” 

Not one further word did she vouchsafe to utter, 
even though the imposing figure of her pastor now 
loomed beside Moll’s singular form; but swiftly turn- 
ing on her heel, she fled with Erin into the warm 
turf-scented kitchen within, the babe’s wails giving 


26 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 27 

place to a sudden silence, broken only by occasional 
placid coos and murmurs. 

That’s the way with her whenever she can lay 
hands on a child, your reverence! ” remarked a queer, 
high-pitched, cracked voice from the neighborhood 
of the door, and Dooley perceived for the first time 
two figures standing in the narrow passage which 
intervened between it and the kitchen. In one he 
recognized Patsy, while the other, a taller, broader 
edition of the same, was evidently his father. 

I do be tellin’ her many a time she’d like to take 
charge of all the children in the parish. It’s a bit 
for a beggar’s babby one time, and another time she’ll 
be mindin’ a neighbor’s pack, and us with now a 
dozen of our own! ” 

‘‘ Ah, don’t mind him, sir,’^ cried the woman from 
within. He likes to be havin’ a bit o’ fun with me. 
But won’t ye step in for a minute, Father Lalor, you 
an’ the honest man there? The blessed child is quiet 
an’ happy now.” 

Father Lalor complied, and Dooley and Moll 
Riddick followed him into a little low kitchen with 
an earthen floor and whitewashed walls, decorated 
with colored prints, while a fine display of crockery 
gleamed in the flickering light from the shelves of 
the dresser. On the opposite side was a deal table 
spread with preparations for a meal; a pot hissed 
and bubbled over the turf-fire, the smell of the 
smoking stirabout being pleasant in Dooley’s nos- 
trils. A girl of about twelve was peeling a dish of 
steaming potatoes in a corner, two or three younger 
ones sat on the floor before the fire, and Mrs. Nolan 


28 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


gently rocked with one foot a clumsy wooden cradle, 
the while with many tender words she endeavored 
to hush to sleep the now contented stranger 
baby. 

Mrs. Nolan was a little woman, as has been said, 
and her face, seamed and worn by much care, had 
lost not only every trace of beauty, but of youth. 
Yet, in its honesty, its simplicity, and a certain 
curious refinement and purity which all the wear 
and tear of life had been unable to diminish, it 
was undeniably pleasant to look on. Brown soft 
eyes, innocent as those of her youngest born, a smile 
that lit up the homely face with a sudden unexpected 
brightness; quiet gentle ways, a soft voice — one 
might journey far before meeting so sympathetic 
or attractive a personality as that of this poor little 
ignorant hard-working Irish mother. It was, per- 
haps, because her motherliness appealed to people so 
forcibly, that in her limited sphere she was so much 
beloved, and that even chance acquaintances like 
Dooley succumbed at once to her influence. As the 
big burly man sat down upon the settle which ‘‘ wan 
o’ the little girls ” at a sign from Mrs. Nolan pushed 
forward, he gazed at her with a sort of reverence, the 
more singular that he was, if anything, her senior, 
and thought of with new tenderness his own poor old 
mother, long at rest, under the daisy quilt yonder in 
County Kerry. 

'' Moll Riddick, come here and take a lesson,” 
cried Father Lalor, seating himself in the only elbow- 
chair which the establishment possessed. See, now 
— that’s the way to hold a child.” 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


29 


'' Tut, sir, it’s easy talkin’,” retorted Moll. It 
’ud be a queer thing if Mrs. Nolan didn’t know how 
to manage a baby, an’ her wi’ ten o’ them. Is it ten 
or eleven ye have, ma’am? ” 

'' Oh, come. Miss Riddick, ye’re givin’ us more 
than our due,” put in papa Nolan facetiously. '‘Nine’s 
our number, so far. Wan for every chore of angels. 
An’ we’re not that coveteous as to be axin’ for any 
more. We’re quite satisfied, ma’am, I assure you.” 

" Unless the Lord sends them, the poor little 
things! ” added his wife. "An’ even if He does, 
He’ll know how to take care of them.” 

"Well said, Mary Nolan!” exclaimed the priest. 
" Michael Dooley, you and I can take a lesson from 
this. Here we’ve been breaking our hearts and 
cracking our brains about this babe which nobody 
wants, but which God has seen fit to send into the 
world. Come, man, cheer up! As Mary here says, 
He that sent it will know how to take care of it. 
Meanwhile, we must lay our heads together and 
see what’s best to be done. This is Mr. Gerald Fitz- 
gerald’s child, Mary. You remember Mr. Gerald, 
don’t you? And Pat — you do, of course.” 

Of course they did: had not Mary, as a slip of a 
little girl goin’ to school, stood many a time to see 
him riding by, such a fine, handsome young gentle- 
man, with a smile and a kind word for every one? 
And had not Pat once, when a lad, surreptitiously 
watched the drilling of Fitzgerald’s band of confed- 
erates, and heard his burning words — ay, and seen 
the boys chair him through the village to the smithy 
when he had instructed the blacksmith as to the best 


30 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


method of making pikes? Remember him! They 
should just think they did. And was this his child? 
Why, now that they thought of it, she favored him 
too; she was the very moral of him, indeed. Miss 
Riddick opined. 

“Ay, but she has the mother’s eyes,’’ said Dooley. 

Beautiful eyes they were, too. ‘ Real Irish eyes.’ 
Misther Gerald used to say. I believe it was for them 
mostly he took to the poor lonesome young thing - — 
‘ I couldn’t see those Irish eyes clouded with trouble 
or tears,’ he said, an’ so he went an’ married poor 
Maggie Brophy that hadn’t a ha’porth of her own, 
an’ couldn’t so much as write her name.” 

“ That is certainly characteristic of Gerald,” re- 
turned Father Lalor, with something between a 
laugh and a sob. “ But, Mr. Dooley, you must tell 
us all about it from first to last, please. We must 
know the story, and then we must think about the 
child’s future.” 

So Michael Dooley began his tale, his eyes wander- 
ing the while from one to another of his hearers, who 
soon became numerous, as, one by one, the repre- 
sentatives of the “ nine chores of angels ” came 
creeping near, some from the inner room, and some 
from hitherto unnoticed corners of the kitchen. 
Patrick Nolan, senior, snuffed the dip candle occa- 
sionally with his finger and thumb, or thrust his heel 
into the burning sods on the hearth, so that a 
momentary flame darted up the chimney, irradiating 
the rugged features of the speaker or the placid face 
of the babe who lay broad awake on Mary’s knee, 
staring solemnly at the glowing embers and stretch- 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


31 


ing out lazy little limbs in evident enjoyment of the 
comfort and security afforded by this inimitable 
cradle. 

Michael related to the little group how this Gerald 
Fitzgerald, whom the seniors had all known and 
loved, and who, for his speeches and writings in ’48, 
was convicted of treason-felony and sentenced to 
fifteen years’ transportation, had been included in 
the amnesty granted to the leaders of the movement 
some time later. Making his way to America, he led 
for many years a wandering and unsuccessful life in 
the Western States; and at last, when no longer 
young, entered into partnership with honest Michael 
himself. They had farmed a small ranch together, 
and it was on a journey undertaken on some business 
connected with their little estate that Gerald had 
come across his future wife, then newly arrived from 
Ireland and almost destitute. Her big blue eyes, her 
simplicity and her forlorn condition, touched the 
heart of the Quixotic, melancholy man, and he 
brought home to the Californian ranch, as his bride, 
this peasant girl who might, with equal propriety, 
have been installed there as his servant. Contrary to 
what might have been expected, however, the union 
turned out exceedingly well, and for almost two 
years the elderly bridegroom was childishly happy. 
But it was decreed that his career was not to end in 
less troubled a fashion than it had begun, and even 
while this hapless wedded pair — of whom one was 
scarcely more fit to battle with the world than the 
other — were looking forward joyfully to the spring 
which should see them with a child in their arms, 


32 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


pecuniary ruin stared them in the face. It was 
long before Michael Dooley could bring his partner 
to realize this fact, but at last he made him under- 
stand that their farming operations had resulted in 
disastrous failure, and that unless they all intended 
to starve together, they must make up their minds 
to start life afresh. After much vacillation, Gerald 
decided that as soon as the babe was born he 
would return to more civilized regions and endeavor 
to procure employment on the staff of some news- 
paper. His former connection with the Nation and 
The United Irishman well qualified him for such a 
post, but it was characteristic of the man that he 
would not consent to have recourse to this expedient 
until it was clear to him that no other means of live- 
lihood was in his power. His pen, he said, had 
hitherto been dedicated to the service of his country, 
his work given freely out of an unbounded love; it 
seemed to him a degradation and desecration to 
make oj it now a mere mercenary thing — he would 
almost as soon think of patching a counterpane with 
the national flag, or twanging for hire the harp that 
hung in Tara. 

But, after all, the poor romantic Irelander was 
never required to miake this sacrifice. Almost 
before he had ceased to put forward scruples with 
regard to the new shaping of his life, he was in the 
grip of a deadly disease; and the babe so eagerly 
longed for opened its blue eyes on a world to which 
its mother’s were already closing, and was cradled in 
the arms of a father soon to loose his hold of all 
earthly things. 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


Michael’s impressionable little audience interrupted 
him at this point with many groans and smothered 
laments, and it was in rather a shaky voice that he 
himself, as soft-hearted and easily moved as any of 
them, continued: 

Well, when she was to be christened, some was 
for callin’ her Mary, that the Blessed Virgin might 
take her from the first under her protection, an’ 
some thought she ought to be Maggie, afther the 
poor young mother lyin’ dead in the next room. 
Misther Gerald himself didn’t seem to be noticing 
anything much, only lying there with his arms ’round 
the child, singin’ to it now an’ again; but he looks 
up all at once, ' Call her Erin,’ says he, loud and firm. 

‘ Erin shall be her name, as the last proof of her 
father’s love for his country an’ hers. Oh, Erin! ’ he 
says, risin’ his head from the pillow and tryin’ to lift 
the child in his arms, ‘ I have indeed loved thee, all 
that I had was thine — I would joyfully have given 
my life for thee! Behold,’ he says, ‘ I dedicate to thee 
this child, the only thing in the world that I can still 
call my own. With my last breath I consecrate her 
to thee ’ ” 

Dooley here broke off suddenly; sobs were heard 
in the little room, and tears fell on baby Erin’s frock: 
even the priest, though not so easily carried away as 
those simple and susceptible peasant folk, wiped his 
spectacles surreptitiously. 

''Poor Gerald!” he said, huskily, "it’s just like 
him — just of a piece with his whole life! Romantic, 
and — and — foolish, and unpractical even on his 
death-bed! God bless him, dear fellow! God send 


34 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


rest to that beautiful, unquiet, childish soul of his! 
But I wish he had called the little one Mary! ” 

'' Or even a saint’s name,” muttered little snub- 
nosed Bridget from her mother’s side. 

'' Well then, now, your reverence, I beg lave to 
differ from you,’’ cried Patrick Nolan, who, as a 
subscriber to the Weekly Freeman, and something of a 
scholar, was entitled to speak with authority. ''What 
better name could ye give the child than the name of 
the Island o’ saints, her that evangelized the whole 
\vorld? Sure, what would ye have holier or better 
than that? Only it took a grand clever mind like 
Misther Gerald’s to think of it. Bedad, Mary, I 
think the next little wan we have we’ll call Armagh, 
afther St. Pathrick’s Cathedral.” 

Every one laughed a little at this, though it is only 
due to Mr. Nolan to observe that he really made the 
suggestion in good faith; and presently Dooley 
resumed. 

" Poor Misther Gerald fretted a good bit at first 
about what was to become of the poor child, and he 
wrote, bit by bit, a letther to his brother, asking him 
for God’s sake to look afther her. ' I don’t think he 
can have the heart to refuse, Mike,’ he’d say. ' He 
was never a kind brother to me, but I was a wild lad, 
an’ gave him trouble often enough; but this little 
helpless babe, with no one but him in the wide world 
— a little girl, too, he couldn't be cruel to her, could 
he? ' Indeed he couldn’t,’ says I, an’ I raly thouglit 
it. ' There’s nowhere else for her to go,’ says he, an’ 
then he’d sigh an’ kiss the child and maybe smile. 
^ Little one, you’re going to Ireland,’ he’d whisper 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


8o 


in its ear, ‘ you shall see Ireland, baby/ So, as soon 
as the poor gentleman was buried, and Fd settled 
things up a bit out there, I came away with her. 
Every wan I met, I .may say, was kind an’ lovin' 
to the poor little orphan. Mrs. Murphy, a poor 
woman that was cornin’ home to Dublin, and looked 
afther her all the way, got that fond of her, she was 
near breakin’ her heart afther her at lavin’ her. So 
I left the child’s bits o’ things at the station beyant, 
a while ago,thinkin’ to myself that Misther Fitzgerald 
•’ud send for them as soon as I got there, an’ off with 
me, up the hill to Glenmor. An’ if th’ ould villain 
beyant didn’t chuck me out an’ bid me take the brat 
to the workhouse. ^ If ye leave it there,’ says he, 
' I’ll pitch it out of the window afther ye.’ ” 

‘‘ God bless us! ” murmured Mary Nolan, clasping 
the child closer to her tender bosom. Oh, father, 
what’ll become of the poor darlin’ at all? ” 

See, here’s poor Misther Gerald’s letther,” pur- 
sued Michael. '' I picked it up off the ground where 
th’ ould robber thrown it. See where he says at the 
end, God help him! 'Brother, I only ask you for 
what the poorest peasant in Ireland would not refuse 
— house-room and food for an orphan child, your 
own flesh and blood! ’ ” 

" Oh, Pat,” cried Mary, stretching out her hand 
impulsively to her husband, " Pat, do you hear that? 
' The poorest peasant in Ireland — ’ Oh, Pat, avick, 
let us keep the poor little angel ourselves while we 
have a roof over our heads.” 

"There, ye hear her. Father Lalor! That’s Mary 
Nolan for ye,” returned honest Pat, blinking his 


36 


ROUND THE TURF FIRE. 


little blue eyes, and twisting his face in the queerest 
mixture of emotion and perplexity. ‘‘ Us, that man}^ 
a time has to see our own go hungry, and that never 
knows from one year to another how soon we may be 
turned out on the road! Ye may well say ‘while 
weVe a roof over our heads,’ Mary. How long will 
that be, an’ how will Miss Fitzgerald like to be 
thrown in a ditch with the rest of us some day? 
Upon my word!” beginning to laugh at last, “this 
is the place to eddicate a young lady! She’ll do 
us credit, runnin’ barefoot in the lane. She’ll ” 

“ Never mind, Mary! ” interrupted the priest, see- 
ing tears of vexation and confusion start into Mrs. 
Nolan’s eyes. “ It was a kind and charitable 
thought, and God will bless you for it! But, of 
course, such a thing couldn’t be seriously spoken of. 
No, no, we must get Mr. Fitzgerald to realize his 
responsibilities. I will talk to him to-morrow, and 
meanwhile, Mary, you good creature, if you will 
undertake this poor little creature for to-night, it 
will be a big weight off Mr. Dooley’s mind, I’m sure!” 

“Ay will it! ” ejaculated Michael fervently. 

An hour later all was quiet in the little cabin, the 
youngest of the family being deprived for the first 
time of its mother’s encircling arms, and the little 
stranger slumbering in them blissfully. Poor little 
babe, she was all unconscious that the kind bosom on 
which she was cradled was the only one in all her 
motherland in which she had inspired feelings other 
than a puzzled compassion, and that no single voice 
except that of this poor peasant woman had been 
uplifted to bid her welcome home. 


CHAPTER III. 


“ DADDY PAT ” AND “ MAMMIE.” 

N EXT morning, Father Lalor might have been 
seen marching down the hilly village street, 
his cheeks flushed, his white hair rumpled: while 
he brandished his big stick in a manner which be- 
tokened the wildest excitement. He acknowledged 
the friendly and respectful greetings of his parishion- 
ers with unusual brevity, and even brushed past a 
certain old woman, who sought to detain him with a 
piteous and minute account of the cramps from which 
she suflfered in her inside, with apparent unfeeling 
abruptness. He pressed on, indeed, at so brisk a 
pace, that he was almost breathless when he arrived 
at last at the Nolans' door, on the threshold of 
which Mary was anxiously awaiting him. 

'' Well, Mary,” he gasped, bringing himself up 
with a final flourish of his stick, and pushing back 
his wide-brimmed hat from his heated brow, '' well, 
Mary, I think we may say victory is ours! ” 

“Thanks be to God!” cried Mary, and then, up- 
lifting her voice, she called loudly to her husband to 
come and hear the good news. 

'' When I say victory, you know,'' pursued the 
priest, I don’t mean that we have come off 
altogether with flying colors. We haven't defeated 

C7 


38 ‘‘DADDY PAT” AND “MAMMIEP 

the enemy all along the line, but as far as the pre- 
liminary skirmish goes, I think we may say weVe 
had the best of it. Mr. Fitzgerald,” dropping his 
military metaphor, as he saw the worthy couple 
looking slightly puzzled — Mr. Fitzgerald has been 
made to see that the whole country would cry 
shame on him if he sent his brother's child to the 
workhouse, so he has consented, after a fashion, 
to provide for her. That is to say, the child is to 
be put out to nurse, and he is prepared to pay for 
her maintenance. I did not leave him until I had 
made him hand over to me the provision for one 
year — no more, I must own, than any poor servant 
could pay for the keep of her child, but still 
sufficient to maintain her. Now, Mary Nolan — 
there is no profit to be made of this transaction, I 
warn you, but I apply to you in the first instance. 
Will you undertake the charge of this child? ” 

'' Will I, your reverence? Ay, indeed, with a 
heart and a half! It's no profit I want to make out 
of it, and so long as there's no loss, nobody need say 
a word,” casting a defiant glance towards Pat, in 
case he might be disposed to make objections. 

'' I'll guarantee there shall be no loss,'' said Father 
Lalor. '' I told Mr. Fitzgerald that no further outlay 
would be required this year for clothes or anything 
else. We must get her little baggage from the 
station, and if she comes short of anything between 
this and then — '' pausing and rubbing his nose — 
“ well, you must just apply to me. Next year, as I 
told Mr. Fitzgerald, we must, of course, make fresh 
arrangements.” 


DADDY PAT” AND ^‘MAMMIE: 


e39 


He did not add that the kind-hearted gentleman 
ill question had responded with the hope that before 
next year his niece might be obliging enough to die, 
and thus relieve him of further responsibility. 

It was perhaps curious that the old priest’s influ- 
ence over his very unsatisfactory parishioner should 
have proved sufficiently strong to induce him to make 
even such slight concessions; for Fitzgerald, though 
nominally a Catholic, had long ceased to practise his 
religion, and had been for many a year a thorn in the 
good old man’s side on account of the bad example 
he gave his humble brethren. But, cold-hearted and 
niggardly as was the master of Glenmor, there was 
yet one point on which, as the priest knew, he was 
vulnerable; an overweening pride of race — the desire, 
stronger for being so often baffled, to uphold the 
honor of his name at all costs and against all comers. 
It was to this characteristic that was owing his burn- 
ing resentment towards the revolutionary brother, 
whose follies had, as he conceived, disgraced the 
family, and after whose arrest, conviction, and trans- 
portation, he had himself withdrawn in fierce indigna- 
tion and shame from all communion with his fellows. 
Louis Fitzgerald had grown up with the determina- 
tion of restoring to wealth and honor a race impov- 
erished by many generations of forefathers as open 
of heart and free of hand as harum-scarum Gerald, 
his junior by ten years. He had slaved and hoarded 
all his life with this object, and everything would 
have prospered with him had it not been for the mis- 
conduct of this rebel brother, who, not content with 
making their name ridiculous by signing it to his 


40 


DADDY PAT” AND “MAMMIE: 


mawkish verses and blood-and-thunder essays, had 
caused it to become infamous by openly identifying 
himself with '' a set of ruffians and cut-throats/’ Of 
what avail, then, were Louis Fitzgerald’s efforts to 
exalt the family banner when Gerald dragged it 
through the mire, and with what pride could he rule 
over the large property, gradually and laboriously 
won back, when the meanest cotter on the estate 
knew that a cadet of the house was working out a 
term of penal servitude? The sentence which had 
broken the heart of the one brother, wrecked the 
hopes of the other. He led the life of a Diogenes 
thenceforth, going nowhere, seeing no one; pinching 
still, partly because the habit had grown too strong 
to be easily broken, partly because the solitary joy 
which remained to him was the triumphant con- 
sciousness of his great wealth, the love of money for 
its own sake. But, nevertheless, the very strongest 
passion which he possessed was still an indomitable 
pride; and he was yet keenly susceptible on all 
subjects which concerned his personal dignity. 

Without wasting time, therefore, in appealing to a 
sense of justice long perverted, or to a heart which 
did not exist. Father Lalor had at once attacked 
Fitzgerald on his weak side with so much vigor and 
insistance that, as has been seen, he ultimately carried 
his point. A Fitzgerald of Glenmor in the work- 
house! Was such a thing ever heard of — could such 
a disgrace ever be wiped out? And he to send his 
brother’s child there! Why, his name would be a 
very byword in Ireland, held up to execration by 
gentle and simple alike. Seeing by Fitzgerald’s 


DADDY PAT’’ AND ^‘MAMMIE: 


41 


altering color that his line of argument was effective, 
the old priest continued in the same vein, and did not 
depart until he had extorted from him the reluctant 
promise already stated, and triumphantly pocketed 
the pittance necessary for the orphan’s ‘‘ keep ” for 
one year. 

So Erin was installed at the Nolans, and grew and 
throve amazingly, amid Mary’s hardy brood. Thi3 
gentle foster-mother lavished on her the most tender 
care, loving her as though she were her own child, 
and at the same time treating her with the considera- 
tion due to her rank as the daughter of Mr. Gerald 
Fitzgerald. The little lady was conscientiously 
styled '' Miss Erin ” in the family whose humble 
abode she shared, and as soon as she was of an age 
to play with her foster-brothers and sisters, queened 
it among them right royally. It was only her 
passionate love for “ Mammie,” as, in common with 
the other children, she styled Mary Nolan, that 
saved the little creature from being spoiled; a grave 
look on her nurse’s kind face, a single admonitory 
word was sufficient to conquer Miss Erin in her 
naughtiest moments. One must own, however, that 
Mary did not often exert her authority; in all minor 
points her nursling had her way, and every one in 
the little household, from Micky the youngest, to 
'‘Daddy Pat” himself, succumbed to her influence. 
As to Father Lalor, he was her abject slave; from 
the moment when clinging to his big forefinger sh 2 
had made her first toddling steps, till now when she 
was old enough to repeat her catechism at his knee, 
or to go out driving with him in his covered car, his 


42 


DADDY PAT” AND ‘‘MAMMIE: 


affection for the child had steadily increased. It was 
his great delight to drive with her to a draper’s shop 
in the neighboring small town, and there, placing 
her on the counter, request the attendant to fit her 
out with the best of everything.” The miserable 
sums extorted yearly from her uncle for clothes 
scarcely sufficed to provide her with the barest neces- 
saries, and had not Father Lalor come to the rescue, 
the orphan’s appearance would have in no way dif- 
fered from that of the little Nolans themselves. But 
Father Lalor was not going to have that, and so for 
a year or two Miss Fitzgerald flaunted it in satin hats, 
and fearful braided pelisses and patent leather boots 
with white stitchings — in fact, with every conceivable 
monstrosity that an enterprising shopkeeper could 
palm off on a guileless old man. But, as Erin’s sturdy 
limbs grew stronger and her character developed, she 
evinced a very decided will of her own, and declined 
ito be hampered with adornments from which her 
foster-brothers were exempt: no hat would she suffer 
to rest on her dark curls, no boots or stockings to 
restrict the freedom of her little brown legs and feet. 
Barefoot and blissful she pattered along the moss- 
grown lanes with the other children, and gathered 
flowers and blackberries, and made mud pies even as 
they. She would go out in the morning while the 
dew was yet on the grass, her little feet leaving fairy 
traces as she passed, and never catch cold; she would 
sit on the doorstep or by the roadside in the full glare 
of the summer sun till her ruffled head was positively 
burning to touch, and never seem one bit the worse 
for it. On the contrary, she grew ever stronger and 


DADDY PAT” AND ^^MAMMlBJ 


43 


more lovely, absorbing into her being the sunshine 
and the free air and the wholesome juices of the earth, 
and unfolding as a flower-bud, with daily fresh grace 
and beauty. 

So passed five happy years, during which time her 
uncle never saw the child, never asked a question 
concerning her, beyond ascertaining the fact that she 
was still alive. Father Lalor pondered many a time 
on the advisability of suggesting to the man that his 
niece was getting too old to be left longer an inmate 
of this peasant home; that if he refused to admit her 
under his own roof, he should make arrangements for 
some convent school where the little one could be 
educated as became her birth. But his heart would 
fail him when he saw the child's attachment* to her 
foster-parents and her complete well-being and con- 
tentment. 

‘‘ She'd fret if she were sent away from us all,'^ he 
would say, shaking his head. '' She'd be sure to fret. 
She's only a- baby still — and she'll learn no harm in 
Mary Nolan's home. That little woman looks as if 
she always walked in the presence of God." 

This was true: there was never a rough word, 
never even a coarse expression let fall before her. In 
.spite of her simple and quiet ways, her neighbors 
had a certain awe of Mrs. Nolan, and Pat himself, 
though he prided himself on being master of his own 
house, confessed to no small fear of ‘‘ herself " at 
sundry times. He was scarcely ever seen the worse 
for liquor — a fact which was due more to his power 
of howldin' out " than to any mawkish inclination 
to teetotalism; but there zvere occasions when Pat 


i 


\ 


44 


DADDY PAT” AND “MAMMIE: 


would return from town ’’ very argumentative in 
his speech, but slightly unsteady on his legs. Mary 
was generally prepared for this result when Pat’s ab- 
sence was unusually prolonged, and would receive 
him more in sorrow than in anger, and conduct h:m 
promptly to bed, where she would presently treat him 
to a lecture of some length and severity, every clause 
of which her husband endorsed with much fervor. 

'"’Deed an’ ye’re right, Mary ... it is too bad, it 
really is . . . an’ us with all these childher. Ay, 

indeed, an’ the Lord knows how many more we’ll 
have yet ... I am ashamed and c^?nfounded in 
myself, an’ so I ought to be ... I really don’t know 
how I forgot myself that way at all.” 

Theh Mrs. Nolan would emerge with a flushed and 
solemn face from this inner sanctum, and when the 
children returned from whatever expedition she had 
dispatched them on — for she was careful never to* 
allow them to see her husband in this condition — 
she would inform them that poor Da ” was not at 
all himself, and that they must be careful not to 
disturb him. 

Nolan was a shoemaker by trade, and, except when 
cultivating his garden and potato-ground, employed 
himself all day in a little narrow room to the left of 
the kitchen — the shop, he called it — where he 
stitched and whistled merrily hour after hour. The 
workshop was a paradise of delight to Erin, though 
it was dark and stuffy, and the smell of the leather 
was rather overpowering. To her childish eyes there 
was a certain mystery about this sanctum which the 
little ones were only allowed to enter now and then: 


DADDY PAT^’ AND ^^MAMMIEA 


45 


the rows of tools, the sheets of leather, the bunches 
of boot-laces, ^^Dadd}^ Pat's’’ wonderful deftness — all 
excited her interest. 

The children were brig'ht-eycd, active little 
things, wild as young goats, free and unsophis- 
ticated' as the birds, and hardly less innocent. 
Mary taught them their prayers and catechism, 
and instinctively they imbibed her faith, her love 
of God, as formerly they had drawn the milk from 
her kindly bosom. The little orphan had shared this 
motherly nurture of soul as well as of body; but her 
mind being of a more inquiring turn than that of the 
others, she often puzzled her simple instructress by 
strange questions and comments. 

On one occasion she insisted that she understood 
“ all about ” the Blessed Trinity, and that this, the 
most impenetrable of all mysteries, was no mystery 
to her. 

But, my pet,” urged poor Mary diffidently, ye’ 
can’t say that. No one ever understood it yet, nor 
ever will.” 

'' Well, I understand,” returned the small sage with 
a defiant stamp of her foot — ''I understand quite 
zi'cll. Not t’ree Gods — o’ course not! T’ree per- 
sons in one God. I understand, I tell ye — only,” she 
added, after a moment’s reflection, '' I think it must 
make God very fat! ” 

^^After that! ” as Mary said in deep consternation, 
there was clearly nothing for it 1 ut to refer the 
matter to Father Lalor. 


CHAPTER IV. 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 

o NE autumn day it chanced that Mr. Fitzgerald 
was returning . from inspecting some outlying 
farms of his, whither he had driven early in the 
morning, and, remembering that by dismissing his 
car-driver at the village he could save a shilling or 
two, he prepared to go home on foot. As he 
pursued his way rather slowly, looking neither to 
right nor to left, and turning over certain calculations 
in his mind, he came suddenly on a party of children 
playing on the mossy bank which bordered one side 
of the road. He paused as he caught sight of the 
little girl who formed the central figure of the group, 
and the singularity of whose dress would have struck 
him even had not one glance at her face assured him 
of her identity. He knew that face well though he 
never before gazed on it; he recognized every feature, 
every curve, though necessarily much softer in this 
infantile face than in that other, long unseen, but 
constantly in his thoughts; the very eyes, though 
different in color, were like in their brilliancy, their 
expression, half sad, half scornful — why, every ges- 
ture of this five-year-old imp, the turn of the head, 
the momentary knitting of the delicate brows, the 


46 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


47 


curl of the short lip, recalled Gerald — Gerald, as he 
had looked on him for the last time. Erin was seated 
on a big lichen-covered stone, her slender brown legs 
crossed under the skirt of her short frock, which 
scarcely covered her knees. This frock, a purchase 
of Father Lalor’s, was of crimson velveteen, profusely 
trimmed with gold braid, and, however unsuitable 
in fashion and material, was singularly becoming to 
the child. The color, of a soft shade of maroon, 
contrasted with the mass of dusky curls, and set off 
the pretty, delicate tints of her complexion, in which 
clear golden tones of sunburn overlay the natural 
pink and white; and the antiquated shape of the 
garment, with its low bodice and short puffed sleeves, 
revealed the exquisite contour of the dimpled neck 
and shoulders, and gave free play to the well-knit, 
graceful limbs. A crown of scarlet wild cherry leaves 
and ash-berries had been placed by some of her pla}*- 
mates in her dark locks, and in one hand she held a 
peeled hazel-wand, surmounted by a bunch of the 
same. It was a wild, brilliant, barbaric little figure 
altogether, startlingly out of place on this Irish wa}-- 
side, amid these chubby-cheeked, shabbily-clothed 
peasant children, and yet so quaint and beautiful a 
vision that any one but Fitzgerald would have been 
struck with admiration. But rage and a kind of 
shame filled this many's heart as he gazed at the fan- 
tastic array of his niece; noting with scorn the con- 
trast between the velvet frock and the bare sunburnt 
limbs, the grace and baby-dignity of the attitude, and 
the shock heads and ragged garments of her obse- 
quious followers. A further contrast was perceptible 


. < v,> 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


when she spoke presently, in clear tones, well modu- 
lated and refined, iDut with a most uimiistaka.ble 
brogue. 

'' ril take my supper here — tell Bridget to bring 
it to me, one o’ yez, and now ” — with a grand- 
iloquent wave of her small hand — yez can all go 
away.” 

No tragedy-queen could have announced that she 
'‘would be alone!” with a mOk*e magnificent air. 
Miss Erin’s courtiers retired immediately, and her 
small majesty was left face to face with her unknown 
uncle, who now advanced close to her. If he ex- 
pected the child to be frightened or impressed by his 
sudden arrival and stern and forbidding air, he was 
mistaken. Erin sat calmly waving her scarlet-capped 
wand, and gazing at him with curiosity strongly 
dashed with disapproval. 

"Where do you live?” he asked, harshly, at length. 
He would not ask her name. 

"Beyant there, with Daddy Pat an’ Mammie,” 
returned the child, pointing with her stick to the roof 
of the Nolans’ cabin, visible amid some trees at a 
little distance. 

" What do you call them? ” he cried, flushing and 
frowning. 

" Daddy Pat an’ Mammie,” repeated Erin, laconic- 
ally. 

"Your father is dead, child!” exclaimed Fitz- 
gerald, harshly. 

"I know that; an’ so’s my blessed mother — the 
Lord have mercy on their sowls!” — here the little 
creature joined her hands as Mary had taught her. 


UNCLE AND NIECE, 


49 


That’s why I live with Daddy Pat an’ Mammie,” 
she pursued with placid insistence, heedless that 
each repetition of the obnoxious titles irritated 
Fitzgerald further. 

We’ll see about that,” he cried. '' Do you know 
who I am? No? ” — as she shook her head — " Well, 
— I am your uncle. Did you ever hear of your 
uncle? ” 

"Ay.” 

" You did? Come ” — with a savage laugh — " let 
us hear what they say of me.” 

" Mammie bid me never forget to pray for ye,” 
said the child, coloring with instinctive resentment 
at his tone. 

Fitzgerald was disconcerted for a moment by this 
unexpected reply, yet his wrath, instead of diminish- 
ing, increased. Pray for him, indeed! — it was like 
their impertinence! 

" I will release you from that duty,” he cried. 
" You needn’t pray for me any more — do you hear? 
I don’t want your prayers.” 

" Pm very glad,” returned Erin with flashing eyes. 
" I don’t want to pray for you — I don’t want you! 
I wish you’d go ’way! ” and with a sudden outburst 
of wrath, she aimed a blow at him with her stick, 
sliding down from her rocky seat immediately after- 
wards, and fleeing homewards with the speed of a 
deer. 

Her uncle followed at a more leisurely pace, 
brimming over with resentment; too ungenerous 
to take the child’s age into consideration, or to 
remember that if she was dressed like a little 


50 


UNCLE AND NIECE, 


mountebank and spoke like a peasant, he had only 
his own niggardliness and negligence to thank for it. 

ril put a stop to this,” he muttered to himself. 
'' ril not be publicly disgraced by the brat, anyhow. 
I must take her away take her home. Martha will 
see that she doesn’t get in my way. It won’t make 
much difference to me, and will perhaps be cheaper 
in the long run, than paying sums to that canting 
cheat, Mrs. Nolan.” 

This last consideration somewhat soothed him, 
but the voice with which he presently summoned 
forth poor Mary was still of the harshest, as also 
was the manner in which he upbraided her for 
making a figure of fun ” of the child, and for 
suffering her to run about the roads barefoot, with 
her own rascally cubs, playing with them on equal 
terms, and speaking with their villainous brogue. 
Mary, flushed and tearful, defended herself as well as 
she could. The velvet frock was last year’s gift from 
Father Lalor, and having now become too short for 
the child, she was wearing it out every day. For the 
rest, she had done the best she could. They were but 
poor people with common ways, and the darlin’ child 
couldn’t help but imitate what she saw and heard. 
As for keepin’ her from runnin’ about, God bless her! 
it wasn’t Mary who would have the heart to do that. 
Of course, her poor little children were no fit com- 
panions for her — she knew that well — but she tried 
to make them kind and respectful to her always, and 
she would say that, whatever they were, Miss Erin 
could never get any harm from them, poor little 
things! It wasn’t in a child’s nature to keep from 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


51 


playin’ when other children were about her, and Mary 
could not help it. 

'' It is high time now for her to begin to learn 
how to behave,’’ returned Fitzgerald. ‘'A more 
ill-brought-up imp it would be hard to find. I am 
ashamed to own her for my niece.” 

“ Indeed, sir, that’s nothing new,” returned Mary, 
with some spirit. I don’t think you ever took 
much pride in her.” 

'' I’ll take care that in future she doesn’t disgrace 
me, if it’s any satisfaction to you to know that,” said 
Fitzgerald, grimly. '' I’ll send my housekeeper to 
fetch her to-morrow morning, so you’d better get her 
trumpery things together. If I had known how you 
were bringing her up, I should have sent for her 
before.” 

To-morrow,” repeated Mary with a sort of cry, 
too much grieved at the thought of losing the child 
to resent the unjust reproach. Ye’re — ye’re not 
goin’to take her away from us altogether to-morrow f 

Fitzgerald reddened with anger and humiliation. 

''Do you think the child belongs to you?” he 
cried hotly; " you forget yourself, Mrs. Nolan. Take 
her away from you! Remember, if you please, that 
you were her nurse, and nothing more. It suited my 
convenience to leave her with you up to this, and now 
it suits me to take her away — what does it matter 
to you? You have nothing to say to her! ” 

For all answer, Mary flung her apron over her 
head and sobbed behind it, and Fitzgerald, after a 
moment’s pause, turned on his heel and left the 
cabin. When the good woman’s grief had partly 


52 


UNCLE AND NIECE. 


spent itself she drew down her apron slowly, and 
started as she saw Erin’s little figure standing, 
framed in sunlight, on the threshold. 

“Mammie!” she said, advancing doubtfully, her 
eyes filling, and her mouth quivering in sympathy, 
as she gazed at her nurse’s face. 

“My heart’s treasure!” cried poor “ Mammie,” 
bursting into fresh tears. 

Erin uttered an answering wail and rushed across 
the room, flinging herself into Mary’s arms, and 
sobbing until the poor woman was almost terrified 
at the violence of her grief. 

''Whisht, whisht, alanna! aisy now — sure it’s — 
it’s nothin’ to cry for. I — I dun know what came 
over me at all.” 

It’s that bad man! ” cried Erin. " He made you 
cry — I know he did,” and she sobbed afresh — it was 
such a wonderful, heart-breaking, terrifying experi- 
ence to see " Mammie ” cry. But presently, she dis- 
engaged herself, and lifted a small, tear-stained face, 
white and fixed in its anger. " He’s a wicked, ugly 
owld fellow,” she exclaimed, " I hate him.” 

Great was " Daddy Pat’s ” consternation, when 
Mary, having induced Erin to join her playmates out 
of doors, imparted the sad news to him, begging him 
not to " let on ” to the child about the impending- 
separation, as otherwise she knew little Erin would 
not "close an eye” all night. Poor "Daddy” restrained 
his feelings as well as he could, contenting himself 
with inarticulate groans, shaking his head and lugu- 
briously growling, "No matther!” when the children 
asked him what ailed him. Erin’s little face wore an 
anxious expression as she looked from one to the 


UNCLE AND NIECE, 


53 

other of her foster-parents. There was some painful 
mystery connected no doubt with the visit of her 
wicked ” uncle, which she resented fiercely, but 
about which she forbore to inquire, partly because ol 
a curious childish reserve which was one of her char- 
acteristics, and partly because she had a dim dread 
of being enlightened. 

When the time came for her to say her night 
prayers at Mary’s knees, she paused, after having 
repeated her usual little formula: ‘‘ God grant the 
light of heaven to my papa and mamma. Eternal 
rest give unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light 
shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.” 

'' God bless my uncle,” prompted Mary, tremu- 
lously. Erin squatted back on her little bare heels. 
Em never goin’ to pray for him no more.” 

Oh, my jewel, you mustn’t say that. That ’ud 
be wrong entirely. Why w^ouldn’t ye pray for him? ” 
He bid me not himself to-day,” observed Erin, 
shaking back her curls defiantly. 

''God forgive him!” ejaculated Mrs. Nolan, in 
mingled horror and anguish — " But maybe ” — en - 
deavoring to recover herself*, " maybe he was — only 
joking. Ye’ll pray for him, darlin’, when Mammic 
bids ye, won’t ye? ” 

Erin gazed solemnly up at the kind troubled face, 
and presently knelt upright, and clasped her hands 
once more. 

" God bless my uncle,” resumed Mary, in her most 
devout tone. 

" God bless my uncle,” echoed the clear, childish 
treble, and then, after a short pause, Erin added 
slowly and fervently, " and send him to hell soon.” 


CHAPTER V. 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 

A FTER this indication of her nursling’s feelings, 
Mary’s dismay at the approaching change in- 
creased. 

Sure the tellin’ her itself ’ud be as much as my 
life’s worth, let alone the makin’ her go, an’ yet she’ll 
have to be told to-morrow mornin’ before the strange 
woman comes. D’ye think ye could tell her, Pat, in 
a kind of a laughing way, ye know — I — I couldn’t 
keep from the cryin’ if I went to go to do it myself.” 

Laugh, indeed,” whimpered Pat, there’s not 
much laugh left in me. Pd make a poor hand of it 
altogether, so I would. Ye had a right to go to 
Father Lalor, anyway — an’ see what he says. Sure 
maybe he might be able to put a stop to it altogether. 
Bedad, we ought to have thought of that before.” 

Mrs. Nolan revived somewhat at this suggestion, 
and donning her bonnet and shawl forthwith, set of¥ 
through the dusk for the priest’s house. 

But she returned in no very cheerful mood. Father 
Lalor was of opinion that if Fitzgerald wished to 
take his niece away, it would be useless to oppose 
him, and that therefore they would do well to pre- 
pare her on the morrow, and he would himself drive 
her to Glenmor in his covered car. He would keep 


54 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


55 


an eye on Mr. Fitzgerald, he had added, and would 
take care that the little one was not ill-used. 

When the good old priest called on the following 
morning, however, he found that Mary had not yet 
had the courage to break the tidings to the child. 

Sure I hadn’t the heart, father,” she explained in 
a whisper. She wouldn’t stir a foot from me the 
whole day, an’ she’d look at me so pitiful every time 
Fd go to begin, that I raly couldn’t say a word. 
But she has been watchin’ me gettin’ her little bits 
o’ things together, an’ she let me put on her boots 
an’ stockin’s, an’ never a sound out of her — her that 
yu’d hear shouting above at the glen every time I try 
to get a shoe on her — so I think she suspects, your 
reverence.” 

‘‘Well, well,” grumbled the old priest, “take her 
out to the car. We must be off, or that woman 
Martha will be here on top of us. Fll have to tell her, 
poor little thing, myself, as we go along.” 

“ Now my beauty,” began poor Mary, turning to 
the child, who was clinging to her skirts, “ here’s 
Father Lalor goin’ to take you for a lovely drive — 
himself an’ you. Ye’re in great luck.” A big sob 
almost choked this mendacious statement, but she 
swallowed it down bravely. “ ’Tisn’t Patsy that ’ud 
be gettin’ a drive in Father Lalor’s car, nor Maggie, 
nor even Bridget, as big as she is ” 

By this time they had reached the vehicle, Erin 
trotting beside Mrs. Nolan in silence, but staring at 
her hard; her small bundle of belongings was handed 
in, and Father Lalor, already seated, held out his 
arms for herself. Mary stooped to detach the 


56 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


little clinging hands, and as she did so the tears 
gushed from her eyes. Erin with a startled look 
loosed her hold, and suffered herself to be lifted into 
the car, but when she was installed on Father Laloffs 
knee, and the door closed, she suddenly stretched out 
her arms with a piercing cry. 

'' Mammie! ” 

Drive on for God’s sake! ” exclaimed the priest 
in great perturbation. There was something so un- 
childlike in the anguish of that cry, in the expression 
of the small white face, with its panic-stricken eyes, 
that he was almost frightened. 

Mary turned and fled into the house, where Pat 
and the children awaited her, having received strict 
orders not to let Erin see them crying, and not daring 
in consequence to accompany her to the gate. 

When the car turned the corner of the road, and 
the cottage was no longer in sight. Father Lalor 
cleared his throat. 

'' My pet,” he said, ‘‘I want to tell you something.” 
Erin looked him full in the face. 

'' I know where ye’re takin’ me to,” she returned. 
'' That bad man bid ye fetch me to his ugly owld 
house.” 

The priest, greatly disconcerted, and partly re- 
lieved, entered into a laborious explanation; finding 
the difficulty of inducing Erin to take a hopeful view 
of the matter increased by his absolute inability to 
feel hopeful himself. The child was still unconvinced 
when they arrived at Glenmor, where the door was 
opened by Martha, bonneted and cloaked, and look- 
ing particularly sour. 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


57 


'' YouVe brought the child, I see,’’ she observed, 
as Father Lalor lifted her out. I was just going to 
fetch her. Are those her things? Now then, come 
along, my dear.” 

She spoke sharply, and yet had the priest been 
less preoccupied he would have noticed that her ex- 
pression changed as she caught sight of the little face 
under the quilted satin bonnet. 

'' Kindly inform your master that I wish to see 
him,” said Erin’s protector, holding the child’s trem- 
bling hand fast. 

The woman hesitated a moment, and then said, 
more gently than she had hitherto spoken: 

I wouldn’t if I was you, sir. It’ll be a deal better 
for her if you don’t miake no fuss about her. Just 
leave her quietly with me in the kitchen, and let the 
master notice her when he has a mind to.” 

Indeed, I’ll do nothing of the sort,” cried Father 
Lalor, indignantly. '' Remember this child is the 
daughter of your master’s brother, and entitled to 
be treated with proper respect and consideration. 
If Mary Nolan’s house is not the proper place for 
her, and,” with a hasty wave of his hand, '' I must 
own it certainly is not — it certainly is not — neither is 
your kitchen. Let me pass — I will see your master.” 

Martha smiled grimly. 

‘‘ I’m sure it’s no pleasure to me to have a child 
messin’ about my kitchen. It was but for her good I 
spoke. Do as you please, sir. This way to the study.” 

Erin gave a scared look round as they entered the 
dilapidated room, and clung closer to Father Lalor. 
Her uncle glanced over his shoulder without rising. 


58 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION, 


‘‘You've brought the child, have you?" he ob- 
served; then, raising his voice, “Martha! take her 
away." 

The sturdy old priest moved forward one of the 
crazy chairs, and after cautiously testing it to see if 
it would sustain his weight, sat down, and drew Erin 
between his knees. 

“ Mr. Fitzgerald," he began, “ I have one or 
two little things to say to you, and, upon my 
word, I think it would be as well for you to turn 
round and listen to me decently. It would 
save you a crick in the neck maybe," he added, 
quaintly. 

“ If you think Fm going to be bullied " — growled 
Fitzgerald, jerking round his chair, however, and 
turning his lowering face towards his visitor. 

“ No, no, sir, you'll get no bullying from me," 
interrupted Father Lalor. “ I just want to explain 
the matter to you and then I will take my departure. 
Now, here is this child — alive and well, thank God 
— that's one fact. She's your niece, Miss Fitzgerald 
of Glenmor — that's another. If she is to go on 
living, and thriving as she should, she will require 
good food and good clothes, and proper care, sir; 
and if she is to be brought up as befits her future 
station in life, she must have a good education. 
And now," said the old man, raising his voice as 
Fitzgerald endeavored to interrupt him, and lifting 
his finger with the gesture he usually employed when 
he reached a particularly impressive part of his ser- 
mon, “ now I'm coming to my third point. This is 
the most important of all. The child is a Catholic, 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


59 


sir, and entitled by the law of the land to be brought 
up in her father’s faith. You, I regret to say, have 
long ceased to practise your religion, and your 
housekeeper is a Protestant. To come to a practical 
conclusion, therefore,” again uplifting his forefinger, 
and quoting a phrase familiar to his congregation, 
“ let me ask you what school you intend to send the 
child to? She should be sent to school. Indeed, Mr. 
Fitzgerald, you would find it the easiest and simplest 
plan to send her at once to a convent school, where 
she would be well looked after. It would free you 
from all trouble and responsibility, you know,” he 
added persuasively, looking over his spectacles with 
anxious, pleading eyes, and patting the child’s 
shoulder with his big gentle hand. ^ 

Fitzgerald rose from his chair. 

It is exceedingly kind of you to concern yourself 
so much with my affairs,” he remarked. When I 
require your advice about my niece’s education I 
shall consult you. Meanwhile, perhaps you will have 
the kindness to take yourself off. As you were good 
enough to point out just now, I stand in her fathers 
place — therefore, I take it, no one has a right to 
interfere with me.” 

''Oh, shame, sir! shame!” cried Father Lalor 
warmly. " Do you dare to twist my words to suit 
your cruel purpose? There's justice to be had, sir,” 
looking very fierce and clapping his hat firmly on his 
head, " and if you don’t do your duty by that child 
we’ll argue the matter out in a Court of Law, and 
maybe more would come out about yourself and your 
doings than you’d quite fancy.” 


60 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


He had risen from his chair and approached the 
door, accompanied by Fitzgerald, whose face had 
turned white with anger, and who now, with a sudden 
swift movement, pushed the old man and his charge 
into the passage. 

'' Take care,’’ shouted Father Lalor, as the door 
was violently slammed behind them, “ youVe not 
seen the last of me yet. No, nor heard the end of 
this. God forgive me! ” he added to himself, as he 
walked slowly towards the house door, ‘‘ God forgive 
me for the terrible passion Fm after getting into. 
But when the wolf has the lamb in his clutches, iFs 
hard for the shepherd to keep cool.” 

Fie had now reached the open air, and turned to 
face Martha who had followed him. 

“ Well,” he said, ‘‘ I must give her up to you, I 
suppose. Good-by, Erin, good-by, my pet. I’ll be 
calling to see you in a day or two. Don’t cry — don't 
cry, there’s a good child. See now, let Father Lalor 
go, the poor horse you know is getting cold, and the 
man is tired waiting. That’s it,” gently loosing her 
terrified grip. '' Be a good child and say your 
prayers, and remember the Holy Mother is your 
mother too. God bless you, don’t cry.” Big tears 
were running down his own cheeks as he mopped 
up Erin’s with his red cotton handkerchief; the child 
was crying bitterly, and desperately endeavoring to 
free her little hands that she might again clutch his 
coat. 

'‘Oh, woman, woman!” groaned the priest, 
wrenching himself away at last, and peering anx- 
iously through his dim spectacles at Marlha. "If 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. G1 

you have a heart in your breast, be good to this poor 
little child!’’ 

Martha, who had been making curious facial con- 
tortions during this little scene, nodded, without 
speaking; and stooping suddenly, caught up Erin 
in her arms and ran with her down the steps and 
into the fir-wood. 

Erin shrieked loudly for Father Lalor, and fought 
with her hands and feet, but to no avail; Martha’s 
grasp was strong, and she did not relax it until the 
wheels of the covered car sounded faint in the 
distance. 

'' Now look ye, my lamb,” she said, setting the 
child on her feet, '' the priest’s gone away, and all 
the crying in the world won’t bring him back. If 
your uncle hears ye makin’ that noise he’ll be angry, 
that’s why I’ve brought ye out here; we’ll have to 
stop here till ye’ve done cry in’.” 

Erin’s woe proving too great, however, to be 
checked all at once, her new friend considerately sat 
down on the grassy bank to wait till the paroxysm 
subsided, and Erin sobbed and rolled about on the 
ground and shrieked alternately for Mammie,” and 

Daddy Pat,” and Father Lalor, until at last from 
sheer exhaustion she was obliged to be still. Martha, 
who had been hugging her lean knees in an “ab- 
stracted manner, now stretched out her hands. 

'' Come here, lovey,” she said. 

Erin rose slowly and approached, her chest still 
heaving, her eyes swollen, her face the very picture 
of woe. Something in the little desolate figure 
touched Martha’s heart in spite of her forbidding 


62 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


aspect. Martha had a heart, and certain long for- 
gotten womanly emotions began to assert themselves. 

'' Come, lovey,'’ she said again, and unfastening 
the child's bonnet, she began to stroke her hair. 

Eh, what curls! and quite wet with tears! And your 
little face — deary me! Sit ye down a bit on 
Martha's knee, and don't ye cry no more.’' She 
stooped with a suddenly curious peck at the child's 
cheek. ‘‘You and me will be the best o' friends, 
same as me an' your pa was." 

“ Did you know my papa? " asked Erin, forgetting 
her grief in her interest. 

‘‘Ah! that I did, and you're the very picture of 
him, Missie. Didn't I cook his breakfast for him the 
very mornin' he was took? " 

‘‘ Took — who took him? " 

'' Oh, well, ril tell you some day, may be. But 
wait till you hear about the beautiful horse he had. 
It was bay color with black mane and tail, and it 
used to go galloping, galloping, galloping." 

Now Martha simulated the action of a galloping 
horse with her bony knees. A smile broke slowly 
over Erin's face. Galloping, galloping, galloping! " 
cried Martha, in ecstasies at the success of her 
maneuvre, and jerking the child up and down so 
vigorously that she almost tumbled off her lap. 

“Again!" cried Erin, clapping her hands, and 
laughing outright. 

A high game of romps ensued, Martha making 
up for some slowness and awkwardness by exceeding 
earnestness and good-will. Her face, meanwhile, was 
a study. 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


63 


It was long since she had held a child in her arms 
— not since her little sister died, so many years ago. 
All sorts of queer old memories were stirring within 
her now, and a kind of wondering and reluctant joy. 
But an hour ago she had most unwillingly prepared 
to receive this little visitor; she didn't want no 
children bothering about the house, she had told her 
master, and now the baby laughter was good to hear, 
the touch of the clinging arms was strange and sweet, 
it was pleasant to see the little face dimple into 
smiles. 

''After alV quoth Martha, " it does put a bit o’ life 
in the house to hear a child about, too.” 

She soon became devoted to Erin, and this saving 
element of tenderness in her life, rough and awkward 
though it might be, hindered the little one’s proud 
and sensitive nature from being warped amid its new 
surroundings. 

But not all Martha’s adoration could atone for the 
loss of "Mammie” Nolan’s motherly care, and many a 
time, disregarding the housekeeperis anxious entrea- 
ties, did Erin make her way to her foster-parents’ 
cottage. It was still home to her, and her strongest 
affections were given to Mary and " Daddy Pat.” 
Erin, in spite of Martha’s efforts, ran wild for the 
most part, and as time went on became more and 
more insubordinate. 

When a few years had passed, however, she awoke 
to the fact of her own ignorance, and one day as- 
tonished Mr. Fitzgerald by a sudden request: 

" Uncle Fitzgerald, why mayn’t I go to school be- 
yant the same as Nannie Nolan? ” 


G 4 transplantation and education. 

Why mayn’t you go to the national school?” 
repeated Fitzgerald, angry, but startled at the 
direct question. Because I don’t choose that you 
should go to the same school with all the beggars’ 
brats in the country.” 

He waved his hand impatiently, as though to dis- 
miss her, but was curiously taken aback when she 
came a step nearer to him and looked boldly in his 
face. 

'' Will you learn me then? ” she asked. 

Fitzgerald threw himself back in his chair and 
laughed. It was a good notion that, truly! 

Don’t laugh,” cried the little thing, looking at 
him fiercely and stamping her foot. '‘Ye have no 
right to laugh at me! I will learn how to read. 
Some one must teach me.” 

Fitzgerald glanced at her for the first time with a 
certain interest. The child was growing slim and 
tall; her frock was much too short for her, and 
though Martha had done her best to make her pre- 
sentable with the scanty materials allowed to her, she 
had a certain unkempt look, which struck the man 
with a sense of shame. Then, how eager was the 
face — how intelligent were the eyes! It was cer- 
tainly time she should receive some education. 

" Why are you so anxious to learn how to read? ” 
he said, in an altered tone. 

" Because I want to know things,” said Erin, 
doggedly. 

" Well, go back to your chair. You shall knov/ 
things.” 

Erin clapped her hands and retired; pausing, how- 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. G5 

ever^ when she had got half-way to her place, to cast 
a backward glance and a smile, half shy, half saucy, 
at her uncle. 

Thank ye,” she said. 

The old schoolmaster, who had for many years 
taught the children of the neighborhood, at Glen- 
mor National School, was much astonished on receiv- 
ing a visit from Mr. Fitzgerald one morning, and 
still more on learning its object. This was no less 
than to secure his services for two hours daily to in- 
struct Miss Erin Fitzgerald in reading, writing and 
elementary arithmetic. 

Nothing else, mind; ” he added, drawing his 
fierce eyebrows together. How long will it take 
you, do you suppose, to get that into her? ” 

It depends so much on the young lady herself, 
you know, sir,” stammered Mr. Finn. 

'' Three months, do you think? ” 

Well, I would hardly like to venture on a 
decided affirmative, sir.” 

'' Six months, then? The child is nearly nine years 
old, sharp and eager to learn.” 

The schoolmaster thought he might possibly ven- 
ture to promise that in six months Miss Fitzgerald 
would be proficient in such elementary knowledge 
as he was to be permitted to impart. 

'' I engage you for six months, then,” said the 
other, cutting short the flowery sentence, and at once 
proceeding to terms. These, it need not be said; 
were not high; but then, as Mr. Finn pointed out 
with an elegant bow, the honor was great. 

Two hours a day of conscientious instruction can 


GG 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION, 


do a great deal for an intelligent child. At the end 
of six months Erin could read fluently, write like 
copperplate, and rattle off her tables ” in a manner 
which was the admiration of all who heard her. 

On the morning after the allotted period had ex- 
pired, she was summoned into her uncle’s study. 

Well,’"’ he said, resting his chin on his hands and 
looking at her fixedly. So Mr. Finn is not coming 
any more! What will you do now? ” 

'' I don’t know,” said Erin. 

“ Do you like your lessons? ” 

Erin nodded. 

'' You want to go on with them? ” 

She nodded again. 

“ Who is going to teach you, do you suppose? ” 
Erin hesitated for a minute or two, and then, 
apparently struck by a sudden thought, pointed a 
small forefinger at her uncle. 

Yourself! ” she said. 

Yes, I am, and you’ll have to work your very 
best, let me tell you. No idling, no arguments, no 
nonsense of any kind — do you hear? ” 

Erin nodded again, a smile breaking over her 
face. 

Will you learn me out of them books? ” 

I shall have to teach you to speak before I do 
anything else, I fancy! No, you will have nothing 
to do with these books. They are Greek books — 
most of them.” 

''What’s Greek, an’ why can’t I learn it?” said 
Erin, drawing one of the volumes nearer to her and 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


67 


opening it. Her face fell as she caught sight of the 
unfamiliar characters, but she looked up again boldly. 

That’s something like an Irish book Mr. Finn 
has,” she remarked. Mr. Finn said he could easy 
learn me Irish — teach me, I mean — only you bid 
him not. Why can’t I learn Greek, then? ” 

Fitzgerald laughed; the indomitable little creat- 
ure’s thirst for knowledge interested and amused 
him. It would be great fun to make a blue-stocking 
of her. He had proposed to undertake her education 
partly from motives of economy, and partly because, 
though it was imperatively necessary for the child to 
have instruction of some kind, he did not choose that 
any outsider should interfere with her. But now an 
odd fancy struck him; he would make a scholar of 
the girl — people should see through her what 
Louis Fitzgerald could do, how cultivated was his 
intelligence, how widespread his knowledge. For 
causes already stated, the world at large knew noth- 
ing of his private pursuits — but there was no reason 
why he should not prove to it, by means of his niece, 
that he was no ordinary man. 

'‘You want to learn Greek, do you?” he said, 
“Latin, too, I suppose; everything I know, in fact?” 

“I do!” cried Erin, her blue eyes looking as 
though they would jump out of her head with 
excitement. 

“ The sooner we begin the better, then! ” remarked 
her uncle, with a grim smile. 

It would, indeed, have surprised many of Fitzger- 
ald’s neighbors to learn that he had any marked 


08 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


taste in addition to his passion for money-making. 
But such was the fact; he loved to pore over certain 
antiquated editions of the classics, musty old volumes 
whose pages the school-boys of a bygone age might 
have laboriously conned; adding foot notes of his 
own to the learned commentaries of the good doctor 
or divine who had, a century or so before, presented 
this '' new edition ’’ to the rising generation of 
scholars. These were almost as dear to him as the 
title-deeds of his estate; and this fancy of his was, 
after all, not so very difficult to account for. At the 
age when other youths were distinguishing them- 
selves at college, Louis Fitzgerald was devoting heart 
and soul to the commercial career in which he ulti- 
mately achieved success; but in his spare time he 
applied himself to such studies as he held to be essen- 
tial to the education of a gentleman, providing him- 
self for the purpose with as many dog’s-eared 
volumes as he could pick up for scanty outlay at 
second-hand book-stalls. He had formed few new 
habits during the course of his long life, and this old 
one was, therefore, all the stronger. Louis Fitzger- 
ald, the millionaire, still haunted shabby book-stalls 
in out-of-the-way localities; adding frequently to his 
collection of classical treasures, underlining the pas- 
sages which he deemed finest, and adding, as of yore, 
notes and comments of his own. 

Surely never was girl’s education so odd in its 
nature, or so curiously conducted, as that which was 
now administered to Erin Fitzgerald. Her uncle, 
Father Lalor, Pat Nolan — even Moll Riddick, 
assisting in his or her way in the formation of this 


TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 


69 


young mind. Mr. Fitzgerald's part was, of course, 
the most important; and as time passed, and his pupil 
made rapid progress, he experienced a curious kind 
of pleasure in his task. Erin, on her side, put forth 
all her little strength, dreading unspeakably the gibe 
which was the punishment of failure, and being pro- 
portionately elated at the grim smile which be- 
tokened success. They loved each other no whit the 
more, this ill-matched pair, for all their hours of 
companionship; but each conceived an odd kind of 
respect for the quality of the other's mind. 

Pat Nolan chiefly confined himself to the inculca- 
tion of history — his lore being, if slightly vague as 
far as dates and dry facts were concerned, rich in 
highly-colored detail. But Erin believed in him far 
more than in the history books which she was now 
able to peruse, and did peruse with breathless interest 
in spite of her skepticism. On one occasion, indeed, 
she flung Macaulay " furiously away from her, 
indignantly announcing that he was telling lies. 
Father Lalor, who was a little concerned at the plan 
of education marked out for the child, and feared in 
his simple way that she, too, might be 'ded astray" by 
the course of reading in which she was now permitted 
to indulge, endeavored to counteract the evil im- 
pression which might possibly result by giving her 
the run of his small library — which, like the libraries 
of many Irish priests, consisted ch'efly of books 
bound m green, of a semi-religious, semi-historical 
character. With their aid, Erin learned a good deal 
of the past history of her country; of plantations " 
and penal laws," and the sufferings of Irish Catho- 


70 TRANSPLANTATION AND EDUCATION. 

lies in those bygone terrible times, which are, it 
would appear, never to be forgotten. And her eyes 
flashed through indignant tears as she read them, and 
her voice would break, and her childish bosom heave, 
as she discussed them with Father Lalor or Pat 
Nolan. 

Under Moll Riddick’s teaching Erin learned to hem 
and to darn, and to accomplish all manner of stitch- 
ery — as Martha said: '‘That child seemed able to 
turn her hand to everything.” She was growing a 
tall lassie now, slim and graceful; the intelligence in 
her face so remarkable that it caught the beholder’s 
attention almost before he had time to notice her 
beauty. Her voice was as musical as ever, but she 
had abjured the brogue of her childish days, her 
uncle’s first care being to correct her peasant accent 
and manner of speech. She was still deeply attached 
to the Nolans, and spent every moment that she 
could snatch from her studies in their company. 
Mary endeavored to keep the child as much as pos-, 
sible with her, but Erin grew more and more fond of 
visiting the shop — when Daddy Nolan was at home. 
She liked astonishing Pat and his companions with 
her knowledge, and being applauded, and told she 
was a " hayro ” when she delivered her opinions on 
Irish affairs past and future. And sometimes she had 
the good fortune to meet some old " forty-eight ” 
man who had known her father, and who would re- 
late stories of his valor that made the tears, proud 
and happy tears, course down " Miss Erin’s ” cheek. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


NE day, when Erin was about thirteen, she was 



astonished, on entering the study for her daily 
lessons, to discover Father Lalor closeted with her 
uncle. Both looked flushed and excited — Father 
Lalor much flushed and very much excited; but the 
news he told her when she approached was distinctly 
of a pleasant order. 

‘‘ Eve come to carry you off, child — you have 
been working too hard of late. Pm going to take 
you to my sister’s place, in the County Kildare, to 
see what a fortnight’s change of air will do for you/’ 

‘^Oh!” cried Erin, with a spring of delight, that 
lifted her dark locks from her shoulders and brought 
the color rushing to her cheeks. 

Yes, you can go,” assented her uncle, grimly. 
'' Run upstairs and put on your hat and pack up your 
things.” 

O uncle how good of you!” exclaimed the 
child, looking at him in amazement. I’ll work 
harder than ever when I come back, you’ll see.” 

She flew from the room,- shouting eagerly for 
Martha; and between them they packed her few 
possessions in a carpet bag, wdiich was with some 
difficulty hunted up, as for a considerable time no 


71 


72 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


one had required such an article at Glenmor. Erin 
burst open the study door, radiant; her joy being 
a little clouded, however, by the attitude of the two 
men. Her uncle looked sullen and ill-at-ease; 
Father Lalor anxious and downcast — yet surely it 
was a joyful occasion. 

She took leave of Fitzgerald hastily and soberly 
enough; but once ensconced in a corner of the cov- 
ered car, her glee broke forth. 

O father, how kind you are! What fun it is! 
What on earth made you think of it? Am I going 
to the sister that has the farm, or the other one? 
And am I to stay a whole fortnight? How delightful! 
How did you persuade Uncle Fitzgerald to let 
me go? 

There now, my child, sit still. How am I lo 
answer so many questions? I made your uncle see 
that it would be the best thing foi* you. You are 
going to my sister, Mrs. Riley, of Ballinagall Farm.’^ 

'' O father, I was nearly forgetting. Mayn’t we 
just drive round by Mammie Nolan’s? I do so want 
to say good-by to her; she’ll be so glad.” 

'' No, no, my pet — we’d miss the train. We have 
only just time to catch it. Fll be home to-morrow, 
and Fll be seeing Mary Nolan, and Fll tell her I car- 
ried you off.” 

Here Father Lalor took off his spectacles and 
wiped them, blinking a good deal, and explaining 
that the dust had got into his eyes. Then he told 
Erin, he thought if she could keep quiet he would 
read a bit of his Office ” while they drove along. 
Erin lay back in her corner, and the old man got 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


73 


out his big breviary, and read in a low tone, that 
sometimes sank to a whisper, and sometimes was 
interrupted by groans. 

The child was too happy, however, to pay much 
attention to him, and passed the time pleasantly in 
dreaming and wondering about this unlooked-for 
event in her life; the journey in the train being in 
itself sufficient to delight and excite her. 

This journey, with all its marvels, came to an end 
at last, and Erin and Father Lalor found themselves 
at Sallins station; where the priest, hailing a car, 
desired the driver to take them as fast as he could to 
Ballinagall. 

What a delightful drive was that: Father Lalor 
had shut up his breviary and apparently dismissed 
his painful thoughts. As they went bowling along 
the smooth road — the well-bred little horse step- 
ping out in obedience to a command from his mas- 
ter, and the car swinging lightly as they topped the 
hills and rattled down on the further side, the driver 
firing off sundry pieces of information over his 
shoulder, and Father Lalor pointing out anything 
which he fancied might interest the child — Erin 
was in the seventh heaven of delight. 

The car stopped at last before a long white gate, 
which the man opened, walking beside, his horse 
afterwards as he led it up the steep little hill, on the 
top of which was Mrs. Riley’s house. 

It was a square, pink house, with a slated roof and 
square windows — not a bit pretty or picturesque, 
but solid and comfortable. Mrs. Riley, who awaited 
them on the doorstep, was a«!so square and solid as to 


74 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


form, and pink as to complexion; she had gray curls 
on either side of her face, and was cheery and bright, 
and comfortable in her ways. 

'' How are ye, Pat? she observed, as his reverence 
slowly descended. 

“How's yourself, Lizzie?" returned he, saluting 
her solid cheek in a brotherly fashion, and giving 
Erin a push forward. Airs. Riley embraced her 
warmly. 

“You and me'll have the greatest fun," she 
whispered, confidentially; “you'll see what we'll do 
— when we get shut of his reverence." 

She winked with both eyes together in a very 
knowing and engaging way; and then, darting for- 
ward, paid and dispatched the carman before her 
brother, who had been laboriously hunting up his 
purse, had time to extract the requisite amount of 
change; and, drowning his remonstrances, hustled 
both her guests into the parlor. 

Surely there never was such a good-natured 
woman as the mistress of Ballinagall! She was. 
it is true, rougher in ways and in speech than her 
brother the priest, but to the full as kind-hearted 
and generous. As to her hospitality, Erin was dis- 
posed to think she carried it to extremes, especially 
when she found she was expected to drink cream by 
bowlfuls; Eather Lalor having inadvertently re- 
marked that it was considered fattening. 

He went home the next day, leaving Erin seraphi 
cally happy in her new quarters. Alany a “jaunt " 
did Airs. Riley give her in her outside car, many a 
picnic did they indulge in, many a ride did Erin enjoy 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


75 

cn the wicked little kicking donkey, keeping her 
seat after a fashion which delighted all onlookers. 
Then there were the delights of the farm itself; the 
cows and the pigs and the poultry. Mrs. Riley made 
her a present of one beautiful little hen, telling her 
that the eggs it laid would be her own. Thereupon 
Erin began to '' save them up’’ for the Nolans. Each 
egg laid by '' Speckle ■” was duly buttered, and lab- 
elled Patsy,” or ^‘Maggie,” or Nora,” till her 
foster-brothers and sisters were provided for. “ Mam- 
mie ” was to have the freshest of all. 

She was genuinely sorry to say good-by to her 
kind friend when, at the end of a fortnight, Moll 
Riddick came to fetch her away. Eather Lalor was 
not able to come himself, the housekeeper explained 
— he was quite well — it wasn’t that. Here she 
stopped short, looking meaningly at Mrs. Riley. 

He’s a good deal put about, I daresay,” said the 
latter with a sigh. 

Indeed he is, ma’am,” said Moll. 

It’s all over, I suppose? ” 

'' It is, ma’am. I’m sorry to say; an’ passed off 
worse even than we thought.” 

‘'God help them, the creatures!” sighed Mrs. 
Riley. “ What’ll become of them at all? ” 

Moll Riddick shook her head violently, pursed up 
her lips, and finally, crossing over to Mrs. Riley, 
whispered something in her ear. 

“Oh, my gracious! Ye don’t mean that. An’ 
he such a poor harmless little creature, they say — 
no one’s enemy but his own. God help him! Well! 
Well!” 


76 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


Erin looked from one to the other in amazement; 
both elderly faces, however, according to time- 
honored custom when a sharp child is to be hood- 
winked, wreathing themselves with smiles on meet- 
ing her inquiring gaze. Moll Riddick assumed an ex . 
travagant gayety. Her spirits, indeed, were quite 
boisterous on the return journey, so much so that 
Erin, who was inclined to be depressed at leaving 
Ballinagall and its mistress, felt a little irritated 
with her. 

Once in the covered car, however, which, by 
Father Lalor’s orders, was to convey them to Glen- 
mor. Miss Riddick became very silent; only impres- 
sing on the child the advisability of going straight to 
bed after her supper, and informing her that the 
priest intended to visit her early on the morrow, and 
that she would do well to stay at home till he 
appeared. 

He's too busy to come to-night, dear; and ye 
couldn^’t tell what time he'd be able to come to- 
morrow, and he'd be terribly disappointed not to find 
ye in," she exclaimed. 

Martha received her with a kind of restraint, 
which wounded Erin sorely. Her spirits had risen 
on nearing home, and she almost forgot her regrets 
as she thought of the joyous welcome which awaited 
her. And now Father Lalor was busy, and Martha 
was queer, and her uncle more taciturn even than 
usual at supper — not that she had expected any 
transports from limi] but still he might have asked 
her if she had enjoyed herself, and said he w^as gla l 
to see her home. She thought once more of Mrs. 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


77 


Riley, and Sally, and Speckle, whom she had been 
obliged to leave behind — they loved her, they were 
always glad to see her; she wished she had never 
left Ballinagall. She swelled with anger and hurt 
feeling as she thought of these things, eating little, 
and longing for the meal to be over. In her own 
room afterwards she shed a few tears; but, catching 
sight of the much-cherished basket of eggs, they 
dried as though by magic. She would go and see 

Mammie ’’ Nolan now — at once. She was neither 
tired nor sleepy, why should she go to bed just be- 
cause Moll Riddick told her to? '' Mammie ” would 
be glad to see her, Katie, and Maggie, and Micky 
would give her a warm welcome, '' Daddy Pat him- 
self would be overjoyed. How pleased they would be 
with the eggs — her own eggs, laid by her own dear 
little speckled hen; they would have ''ones apiece’’ 
for breakfast on Sunday morning. 

She jumped and clapped her hands as she 
thought of it; and then, basket in hand, crept very 
softly downstairs and out of the house — Martha 
must not see her, stupid Martha, who hadn’t a word 
to say this evening, and wanted her to go to bed! 
In truth, it was quite time for* a young lady of her 
years to be in bed; the late summer dusk was at 
hand, the pomp and splendor of the Irish sunset 
having given place to tender and mysterious hues in 
sky and landscape. Only the distant trees stood out 
boldly against the still luminous heaven; the rest of 
the peaceful w^orld was wrapped in gentle shadow^s 
and indeterminate twilight tones. Far-away moun- 
tain shapes seemed to Erin to hover in mid-air, wdiile 


78 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


the familiar ones nearer at hand looked down, as she 
imagined, kindly, on the slumbering valley. Erin 
walked slowly, gazing about her and weaving fancies 
about all that she saw; descrying faintly-glowing 
islands in the cloud-strewn horizon, the spear-heads 
of hidden warriors yonder in the fir-wood, a mermaid 
slowly rising from the blue, softly-rolling waters, of 
which she caught a glimpse as she climbed a hillock, 
and fairies, and fauns, and dryads, and angels with- 
out count, peopling sky palaces, and woodland dells. 

She quickened her pace when she came to the 
village. There were the usual knots of idlers outside 
‘‘Murphy's’’ and “Fogarty’s;” one or two men 
turned round curiously to look after her, but, con- 
trary to custom, no one spoke or smiled. Erin did 
not notice it, however. She would soon be with 
“Mammie” now: her chaotic fancies had melted into 
joyful anticipation; she was already in imagination 
within the cottage kitchen, seated by the glowing 
fire, seeing the homely, loving faces, and hearing the 
familiar tones. She broke into a run as she turned 
the corner, shouting out the children’s names, and 
waving her disengaged hand. Would not “Mammie” 
come presently flying to the door? Already she felt 
her arms about her! 

But what was this — what had come to “ Mammie ” 
Nolan’s cottage? Erin stood still, her heart beating 
almost to suffocation, a mist before her eyes. Lo! 
Most of the moss-grown thatch had been torn or 
burned off, and the rafters stood bare against the sky ; 
the door was fast closed, the windows broken. As 
Erin ran forward again, wailing, she saw that the 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


79 


little garden had been trampled all over, the box 
hedges broken down, the flowers and cabbages 
crushed and destroyed. No sign of life remained 
about this once happy little home; all was still and 
desolate. But the child, nevertheless, flung herself 
against the closed door, calling for ‘‘ Mammie, 
Mammie! in an agony of tears, beating the wooden 
panel till her little hand was bruised and bleeding. 
Despair and anguish unspeakable, forebodings of 
misfortune and wrong took possession of her soul, 
and she sat down on the doorstep where she had 
so often sunned herself in her babyhood, leaning her 
head against the lintel, and sobbing as if her heart 
would break. 

Presently a murmur of voices made her look round 
— a number of men, the idlers aforesaid, stood in the 
road, looking at her, and making comments on her 
grief in undertones. 

'' She may well cry for the work of her own flesh 
and blood,’’ said one. 

''Ah, whisht!” cried another, "it isn’t her doin’, 
the jewel. Sure, she’s breaking her heart afther 
them, God help her! ” 

" Much good that will do her,” said a third. "All 
the cryin’ in the world won't comfort poor Pat 
where he is.” 

At the sound of this name Erin half raised herself; 
and, recognizing one of Nolan’s special friends, cried 
out eagerly: 

"Oh, Tim — Tim Hoolahan — is that you? Where’s 
Daddy Pat? Where is Mammie? What has become 
of them all? Oh, do tell me what has happened.” 


80 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


Why then, indeed,, ye may well ax, asthore; an"' 
yedl be breakin’ your heart when I tell ye. Sure, 
they’re all gone, Miss Erin, dear. They were all put 
out of this little place last week.” 

'' Gone! ” cried the child, bursting into fresh tears, 
and sinking back on the doorstep. 

‘'Ay, indeed, miss; gone, sure enough. Evicted, 
miss, for owin’ the bit o’ rent. Och, bedad, they put 
in a terrible time. Sure, didn’t they have the sheriff, 
an’ the polis an’ all? They took all the roof off of it 
before they could get Pat out. Ah, well, poor fellow, 
they have him undher lock an’ key now, safe enough.” 

“ Under lock and key! ” gasped Erin. 

“ In prison, miss; that’s where he is, for fightin’ 
the polis — and poor Mrs. Nolan an’ the childers had 
to go to the workhouse.” 

Prison! The workhouse! For “ Daddy Pat ” and 
“ Mammie.” It seemed like a hideous dream. The 
faces of the onlookers swam before Erin’s eyes, and 
she could scarcely articulate the question. 

“ But who — who did all this? ” 

There was a pause, during which the men looked 
at each other; but presently Tim Hoolahan elbowed 
himself to the front. 

“ Who but the landlord, miss? I tell you he run 
them out because he couldn’t get the thrifle o’ rent 
out o’ them; an’ sure — ye know very well who owns 
all the houses about here.” 

Indeed Erin did know, too well. Many a time, in 
spite of Mary’s remonstrances, had Pat complained 
in her hearing of the “ rack-rent ” her uncle had 
“ put on ” him. Bitter shame and anger were now 


THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 


81 


added to her grief — a very frenzyof hatred seized her; 
she shook like an aspen leaf, but the tears dried upon 
her scorching cheeks. 

She raised her basket of eggs — the eggs which, 
like those of the fable, had given rise to so many 
dreams and plans — and dashed them violently down 
upon the doorstep, breaking them every one, and 
splashing the door and the walls of the deserted cabin 
with their yolks. 

Thus did Erin make libation on the desecrated 
threshold of her former home, in dim, tribute to the 
household gods that had departed, and no less vague 
invocation of some unseen power who would avenge 
these intolerable wrongs. 


CHAPTER VII. 


DESOLATE. 

u ^OME, boys, what are you doing here?'’ said 
Father Lalor, as he elbowed his way through 
the little crowd, which had rapidly increased in num- 
bers, and now blocked the road opposite the Nolans' 
house. '' Go home, now; go home. It's a sad sight, 
and you'll do no good by looking at it." 

'^Ah, then, yer riverence, ye'd do well to be spakin’ 
a word to the poor little girl there. Sure, she's 
breakin' her heart out an' out — an' it no fault of hers. 
Ay, indeed, the crathur! she thought the light shone 
out o' Mary Nolan." 

‘'Ah, God help her! she takes after Misther Gerald, 
so she does. She has the very face of him this 
minute. She'd be the death of her ould villain of an 
uncle if she got the chance, God love her! " 

“ Eh, what — what? Who's that?" said the priest, 
in great perturbation. “Why, Erin, my pet, what 
brings you here at this time of the evening? Moll 
Riddick told me you were in bed, and that's where 
you ought to be. Come home with me now, child; 
come! " 

“ O Father Lalor! " cried Erin, the reproach in 
her voice piercing the old man's heart, her pallor 
perceptible even in the increasing dusk, “ Father 


DESOLATE. 


83 


Lalor, you knew — and you got me out of the way on 
purpose! How could you — how could you?’’ She 
stopped, choking with sobs. 

'' My poor child, what could you have done? I 
did all I could to prevent it; and when all failed, 

I thought it best to take you away.’’ 

‘‘What could I have done? I would have died 
before I let this happen. O father, to think I have 
been so happy all this time — and — and Mammie! 
Oh, dear, oh, dear! ” 

“Ah — h — h, God help her!” came from the by- 
standers; those who had been least merciful a little 
while before being filled with compassion now. 

“ Will you all go home out of that, if ye please? ” 
cried the priest, in much exasperation; for he was 
sorely distressed, both at the scene itself, and at the 
fact of its being witnessed by so many. “Away witli 
you, every one, and leave the child to me. My pet,” 
he said to Erin, when they were alone, kneeling stiffly 
on one knee beside her, and drawing down the hands 
with which she had covered her face, “ my pet, don’t 
fret so, don’t. Poor Mary herself would be breaking 
her heart if she saw you.” 

“But where is she now?” cried Erin; “and the 
children, and poor Daddy Pat, who never did anyone 
any harm in his life! O father, father, father! — 
they were all so good — and so happy. And look at 
their poor little house now, and their garden — and 
all because they were too poor to pay the rent! Oh! 
I don’t think there was ever any one so wicked 
as Uncle Fitzgerald. I — I can never be happy 
again! ” 


84 - 


DESOLATE. 


In vain did poor old Father. Lalor exhaust him- 
self in well-meant endeavors to console her. Like 
Rachel of old, Erin wept, and would not be com- 
forted. It was such a breaking up of all her childish 
beliefs and ideals. Her faith was shaken in every 
one and everything, from Providence itself — the 
all-bountiful Providence, whose special province it 
was, as she used to think, to watch over good, 
prayerful, trusting souls like Mary Nolan, and keej) 
them from evil — to Father Lalor, who had tricked 
her, got her out of the way, allowed her to be deluded 
with false happiness, while this tragedy was befalling 
her nearest and dearest; Mrs. Riley, too, Martha, 
Molly Riddick — all — all had deceived and betrayed 
her! As for her uncle — no words can describe the 
loathing she felt for him; the horror and disgust at 
what she held to be a monstrous wrong. 

Erin suffered Father Lalor to raise her at last, and 
to lead her home. Early, however, on the following 
morning, she presented herself at the presbytery. 

“Father, will you take me to see Mammie to-day?’' 

“Child — to the workhouse? You know she is in 
the workhouse?" 

“ Yes, I know." 

“ Dear, I don't know what to say," murmured 
Father Lalor, looking anxiously at the white face, 
with its dark-rimmed eyes,, the little hands clasping 
and unclasping themselves. “ I don’t think you are 
fit for it. It’s not a place to bring you to." 

“ Oh, father, I mnst go! " cried Erin. “ I will go — 
I will go by myself, if you won’t take me." 

“ Well, well, we'll see. You must be very quiet. 


DESOLATE. 


S5 


you know, and — and try not to fret, for poor Mary’s 
sake. God help you both! ” he added to himself. 

Never in after life did Erin forget that meeting 
with her foster-mother. Every detail of it was 
seared into brain and heart. The gray, prison-like 
building, the long, bare rooms, with women talking 
and laughing — so many women, and some with such 
hideous faces — the yard where, from a window, she 
caught a glimpse of Maggie and Nora, standing with 
sad, puzzled looks in the midst of a boisterous, dirty 
little crowd — and then '' Mammie,” in her workhouse 
dress, with her sweet eyes red and swollen with 
weeping. Mammie,” who could only sob, and clasp 
her in her arms, and sob again — it was like a terrible 
nightmare, only no dream-anguish was ever so 
poignant! 

Then came a period of illness — the child’s over- 
wrought mind reacting on her body — which lasted 
for some weeks, her recovery being retarded by the 
news of the Nolans’ intended emigration. Pat, who 
was now out of prison, had relations in America who 
were, it seemed, doing well, and who had sent the 
money for the journey. It was the best thing they 
could do, people said, and perhaps the change would 
be the making of Pat; but Erin, hearing of it, turned 
her face to the wall, and wept as though her heart 
would break. 

Nevertheless, on the morning of the Nolans’ de- 
parture, she insisted on going to the station to see 
them off. There was quite a little crowd there, and 
as the whistle sounded, and the train moved slowly 
aw^ay, some women began to keen, and the monoto- 


86 


DESOLATE. 


nous, unearthly chant drove Erin almost distracted. 
Snatching her hand from Father Lalor’s, she stag- 
gered after the train, crying pitifully to Mary Nolan, 
whose white face was still visible at the carriage 
window, and at last falling in a dead faint on the 
ground. 

This’ll be the death of her! ” cried the old priest. 
‘‘ I ought never to have brought her — but she was 
bent on it.” 

Erin was indeed ill for many days, during which 
she was haunted by Mary’s face, and the keening 
sounded perpetually in her ears. Father Lalor pre- 
vailed on her uncle to send her to Ballinagall again; 
and there Mrs. Riley’s care, and the fresh air, and the 
absolute quiet, restored her to health — though, as 
her friends sorrowfully agreed, she would never be 
the same child again. 

It was true — Erin, in fact, after this great trouble, 
ceased to be a child at all. With all her cleverness 
and precocity she had hitherto been very babyish in 
some ways — she had cherished her doll in her very 
heart of hearts, and dearly loved a romp with Martha 
or the little Nolans. On rising from her sorrowful 
sick bed, however, she put away from her, forever, 
the things of a child. She had given her doll to little 
Nora on parting, and she steadily refused another; 
she was silent and sedate, reading much, and appear- 
ing to think more. One point on which she was firm, 
though it troubled and alarmed those about her, was 
her determined rejection of her uncle’s offices as 
tutor. She loved her lessons, but she hated him, and 
the hatred predominated. Not all Father Lalor’s 


DESOLATE. 


87 


entreaties nor Fitzgerald's angry threats prevailed 
against this resolution of hers. 

‘‘ Grow up an ignoramus, then! " cried her uncle 
furiously one day, “ it's all you are fit for — I might 
have known you would never persevere." 

Erin looked at him with a curious expression, but 
said nothing. 

‘'It is a pity you did not emigrate with the Nolans," 
he sneered; he knew perfectly well the reason of 
Erin's rupture with him, though she had never openly 
reproached him. 

“ I wish — I wish I had! " said the girl, passionately. 

Mary Nolan wrote sometimes; ill-spelled, loving, 
letters. It would seem as though the neighbors 
were right, and that they had done well to emigrate. 
Pat had turned over a new leaf, she said, and 
Bridget and Patsy were in situations, and they 
were all getting on, thank God; and Miss Erin 
wasn't to fret. And then the page would be 
blurred, as Mary added that her heart was still in 
the little place at home, and that she. did be often 
fancying she was back in it and listening for her 
darling's step, though God knew she ought to have 
more sense than to be romancing that way, and 
she was sure that even if they wer^ never to meet 
again. Miss Erin would never forget her. 

Erin could read between the lines of these simple 
missives, could see Mary's eyes reddened with the 
tears which had blotted them, and fancy the longing 
for the o*ld country and the old home which had 
overwhelmed her as she scrawled that almost 
illegible postscript. How she must have envied the 


88 


DESOLATE. 


letter which would go sailing back to Ireland, be 
touched by Irish hands, and pressed to her child’s 
heart. And then Erin would passionately kiss the 
row of little crosses at the end and sob, and register 
all kinds of desperate vows. Forget Mammie’M 
Never, never! While she lived she would treasure 
the memory of her foster-mother and her home — the 
only home she ever knew, the home which had been 
ruthlessly destroyed by her nearest in blood. And 
then she would make vague furious resolutions to let 
the world hear of it some day — to force her uncle to 
allow Pat and Mary to come back to their little house. 
Some day she would do such things; as yet she, like 
Lear, knew not what — but she meant to astonish 
people. Perhaps, like Joan of Arc, she would fight 
for her country, and free it from landlords and Eng- 
lishmen and all other tyrants and usurpers. Why 
should there not be an Irish Joan of Arc? The idea, 
at first merely an idle fancy, gradually took root in 
her mind. What if she, the child of an Irish 
patriot and an Irish peasant, were in future years 
called upon to deliver her country?’ 

Some day, perhaps, she would sway vast multitudes 
with her eloquence; and then they would unani- 
mously vote her their commander, and she would 
lead them on to victory or death. Sometimes 
Erin would try one or two high-sounding phrases on 
some of her rustic neighbors, and was charmed at 
the effect they produced. It’s you that has the gift, 
Miss Erin, dear,” said an old woman to her once, 
wiping her eyes; and the girl’s heart swelled with the 
delightful consciousness of power. 


DESOLATE. 


89 


Her happiest moments, or rather hours, were spent 
in a favorite citadel of hers, the rocky summit of one 
of the minor hills in the neighborhood. 

It was a very beautiful spot, rock-strewn and wild, 
and intensely, unspeakably lonely; but Erin loved it 
for its very loneliness. From her post of vantage she 
could see a very wilderness of hills of every shape and 
every hue, from distant, ethereal blue, floating as it 
would seem on the confines of an opalescent heaven, 
to the giant guardian of the valley, Beanagh-mor, the 
Golden Spear, cone-shaped, rugged, resplendent, in 
purple and yellow and green, changing in aspect with 
every shifting cloud; its deep hollows and unexpected 
clefts appearing and vanishing as though by magic, 
its stony apex now glancing in the sun, like some 
crystal mountain of fairy lore, now frowning darkly 
down upon a landscape livid with stormy light, anon 
misty, shadowy, unreal, leaning as it seemed to her 
against a veiled, mysterious sky. 

She loved it best in autumn when the pride and 
pomp of heather and bracken and gorse had faded 
to a marvellous golden brown, shading off in the 
hollows to tender violet, the dry bed of some tiny 
stream flashing out, white or vividly green, with 
startling effect. There was no lack of color there; 
down, down, far beneath her, Erin could see, on the 
further side of her hill, an undulating stretch of woods 
glowing with the infinite variety of tints of an Irish 
autumn — delicate, feathery, golden ashes, birches, 
spangled with reddish-brown oaks, beeches, limes, 
chestnuts; orange and crimson, green-gold and tawny 
— surely nowhere else are to be seen so many exqui- 


90 


DESOLATE, 


site hues. Scarlet-leaved wild cherry-trees, blue-gray 
willows, and here and there a mass of gloomy 
Scotch firs. Nor was the glint of water, without 
which no landscape lives, they say, wanting to com 
plete the charm of this. Over the shoulder of 
Beanagh-mor, Erin could see a long, shining streak, 
as it were of blue fire, which she knew to be the sea; 
and afar off, amid those purple mountains, or, still 
further, set in that undulating wave of blue, the 
sparkle of lake or river flashed out like a jewel as it 
caught the rays of the sun. 

Here the little maiden would sit and dream for 
whole days sometimes, her bare feet crossed — partly 
for old times’ sake, and partly because of the increased 
facility of climbing, she liked on these occasions to 
divest herself of shoes and stockings — her eyes 
wa^ndering absently over sky and landscape, her brain 
busy with facts and fancies. These very mountain 
fastnesses on which she gazed had from all time 
afforded protection to Irish rebels; the valley beneath 
her had been the scene of more than one engagement. 
Erin’s imagination peopled it again with shadowy 
figures; warlike music sounded in the breeze — the 
clash of arms, the dull thunder of advancing feet, and 
then a mighty cry — the cry of triumph. Amid all 
these dream-forms one was ever the sa»me, a slight 
figure clad in medieval armor — thus, by a curious 
conjunction of ideas, it ever presented itself — with 
flowing hair, and a slender arm uplifting a flashing 
blade. It was the Irish Joan of Arc leading on her 
followers to victory. Sometimes, after the din of 
battle had subsided, and the enemy was captured and 


DESOLATE. 


91 


slain, this figure would be seen borne aloft, with 
shouts of triumph, upon the shoulders of her ad- 
herents, and sometimes lying rigid and still under a 
blood-stained green flag. Erin found it fascinating 
to gaze on under all conditions; and, on the whole 
was best pleased with these last named. 

To die — in setting Ireland free — could there be a 
more glorious fate? 

So she would sit for hours, motionless, until the 
shades of evening filled the valley, and all the mystic 
mountain shapes stood out in sombre majesty against 
a background of flame. Then she would rise, and 
leaving her glorified hilltop, upon the summit of 
which the light still rested, come down among the 
shadows to this workaday world. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 

P ATHER LALOR was, as has been said, much 
distressed at Erin’s present attitude. However 
little he might approve of Mr. Fitzgerald’s system of 
education, there was no doubt that such an education 
was better than none; and to run wild as she was 
now doing was, for a girl of her disposition, per- 
nicious in the extreme. . But he was getting very old 
now, and full of infirmities; and when he found his 
remonstrances and prayers of no avail, he gave up 
attempting to shake her resolution. In fact, he 
acknowledged himself wholly unable to cope with 
her. He did not understand this tenderly-loved 
little friend of his. Her enthusiasm startled him, her 
determination distressed him, her passionate nature 
and impatience of control filled him with fears for 
her future. He was the only friend she had now, and 
he was failing fast. 

Child, child, what will become of you when I 
am gone?” he groaned once, half to himself, after 
listening, with an anxious, puzzled face, to one of her 
tirades. 

And then Erin ceased declaiming, and burst into 
tears. 

He often sighed heavily as he looked at her, and 


92 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


93 


when she asked him the reason, would reply, sighing 
again : 

Old age, my dear, old age.’’ 

One Ash Wednesday morning, after Father Lalor 
had distributed as usual the blessed ashes to an in- 
numerable congregation — for Ash Wednesday and 
Palm Sunday are great days in Ireland, days on 
which every man, woman, and child in the parish 
rallies round the priest — when he had imprinted a 
dusky cross on the forehead of the last infant of 
tender years who approached the altar rails, he 
straightened himself, and stood for a moment looking 
over his spectacles at the crowded church, and then 
raised his hand in blessing; a blessing which was not 
demanded by the rubrics, but which was prompted 
by the fulness of his heart. 

Moll,"” he said afterwards, when he was seated in 
his parlor waiting for breakfast and his housekeeper 
came trotting in, her forehead still smeared with 
traces of the recent ceremony, and her cap very much 
awry — ''Moll, do ye know I have a kind of a feeling 
that this is the last time I’ll be giving ashes in Glen- 
mor chapel.” 

"Ah, what nonsense, your reverence,” cried Moll, 
setting down the teapot with a bang. " Glory to 
goodness, did ever any one hear the like o’ that; aiP 
you well an’ hearty, thank God. No, but it’s fifty 
times more you’ll be givin’ ashes in Glenmor chapel. 
I declare, if it warn't yourself was afther sayin’ it, I’d 
be threatenin’ to tell the priest on ye.” 

" Well, well, Moll; you know it is well to remem- 
ber one’s last end. Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in 


94 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


pitlvemm reverteris. I’ve said that often enough to- 
day, and it’s a good thing to be thinking of. Sure, 
I’m going on eighty, Moll; do you know that? 
Nearly fifty-six years priest. Isn’t it time for me to 
be taking a rest? Ay, ay; I’d be glad enough to go, 
only for one thing. But the Lord knows best. We’re 
all in His hands. Moll — is that what ye call tea, 
woman dear? ’’ 

'' God bless us, I forgot to put the water in! Sure, 
ye have me moithered altogether, talkin’ that way,” 
wept Miss Riddick, wiping her eyes and retiring with 
the teapot. 

Father Lalor laughed and became once more his 
cheerful self, and Moll forgot his presentiment until 
Mid-lent Sunday, when it was painfully recalled to 
her memory. Father Lalor had a particularly slow 
and distinct utterance in saying Mass, every word 
being audible. What, then, was Moll’s surprise and 
terror when she discovered that on Sunday, and 
“ Laetare ” Sunday to boot, clad moreover in white 
vestments. Father Lalor was saying Mass for the 
dead 1 

She could not wait until he came home for break- 
fast, but went into the sacristy at the conclusion of 
the service. 

She found him standing, still in chasuble ani 
biretta, in the middle of the room, with a curious 
half-smile on his face. 

Ye’re not feelin’ quite yerself this mornin’, are 
ye, sir? she asked him, tremblingly. 

Moll,” said Father Lalor, ^Ht’s a queer thing: 
there’s — there’s lead in my shoe.” 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


95 


God bless us, yer reverence, bow'd lead get into 
it? Didn't I clean them myself last night, and fetch 
them up to ye this mornin'? " 

'' It's there, though," repeated the priest, in a tone 
of conviction. '' I feel it so cold and so heavy, Moll. 
See — I can hardly lift my foot.'^ 

He made an attempt to do so, but fell suddenly 
prone on his face, stiff and speechless: a leaden hand 
had indeed gripped him — he had a paralytic stroke. 

For many days after he lay motionless and uncon- 
scious, but at last revived in some degrees, though it 
was plain he would never leave his bed again. 

Often, even before his power of speech returned, 
his eyes would rest anxiously on Erin, who sat by 
his bedside with a pale face and woful eyes. She 
could scarcely be persuaded to eat or sleep; and 
even when forced to leave the sick-room, would take 
up her position outside the door, where she would 
crouch for hours weeping, or praying desperately. 

One evening she chanced to be alone with him, 
Mrs. Riley, who was in attendance, having left the 
room for a moment; and suddenly he spoke in the 
feeble stammering tones with which thev had become, 
familiar. 

Erin, my pet — I'm going from ye — ye know 
that?" 

Oh, no, no, father! I can't let you go. God will 
make you get better, I am praying so hard. You are 
the only friend I have in the world. God will not 
take you away from me." 

‘‘ Faith, my dear," he said, with something of his 
old quaint manner, I don’t see why we should 


96 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED, 


expect the Almighty to perform a miracle for the 
like of us. And it would be a miracle, Erin — nothing 
less, if I am to recover. No, no; the Lord has called 
me, and Ell have to go, child. He's askin' us to make 
the sacrifice, each in our own way — you in the begin- 
ning of your life, and I at the end of mine. It's the 
last He'll require of me; and as for you, my pet, you're 
in His hands — I leave you in His hands. He made 
you, and He'll protect you. Come here, child — close 
— and kneel down." 

Erin obeyed, sobbing, and the old man, feebly 
lifting his hand, marked the sign of the cross on her 
forehead. 

May the God of the fatherless be with you! " he 
said. '' I surrender you to Him. May He watch over 
you in all your ways! " 

After this last great effort he ceased to take any 
interest in earthly things, and concerned himself 
wholly with his own spiritual affairs. 

'' When the end is near," he said once, with his 
quiet smile, '' it's just the same for priest or layman. 
There's only yourself and God. No matter how 
many souls you may have had to look after in your 
lifetime, at the last, you must just concern yourself 
with your own." 

One day he asked suddenly, Do you hear the 
bell, Erin?" 

'' What bell, dear father? I don't hear anything." 

'' I thought," he said, knitting his brows, as though 
making an effort to concentrate his attention — I 
thought I heard a bell tolling. They'll all be prayinj 
for me, won't they? All my faithful people. . . . 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


97 


Come to his assistance all ye saints of God; meet him 
all ye angels of God; receive his soul and present it 
now before its Lord/' 

Erin leaned forward, startled; the old man’s fixed, 
imrecognizing gaze betokened that his mind was 
wandering. He continued to recite slowly and im- 
pressively the prayers for the dying, that he had said 
so often by so many poor beds — his voice weak, but 
infinitely solemn. 

May Jesus Christ receive thee, and the ange's 
conduct thee to thy place of rest. May the angels 
of God receive his soul, and present it now before 
its Lord. . . . Lord have mercy on him, Christ have 
mercy on him. Lord have mercy on him. Our 
Father. . . 

The greater part of this prayer being said in 
secret,” his voice dropped suddenly; but he seemed 
to lose the train of thought, and presently fell into 
a doze. His mind, however, appeared to run per- 
petually in this groove, and in his fancy he fre- 
quently said Mass for the dead, and repeated the 
last blessing and the litany for the departing soul. 
During his transient moments of consciousness, h^ 
was still busy with his preparations for this great 
flitting.” 

He did not appear afraid, only solemn, and deeply 
in earnest. One day he said with pathetic simplicity: 

I think, you know — I think I have always done 
my best. I always tried to do my best — and God 
knows that. He will remember that when I go to 
my account. Fifty-six years — fifty-six years! Think 
of all the souls I have had the charge of in fifty-six 


98 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED, 


years. And I must render an account of all! an 
account of all . . .but I think I have always done 
my best.’’ 

'' I fancy,” said Mrs. Riley, that same evening — 
'' I fancy, Moll, that I can see a change. He’s got 
the look, ye know ” 

''Ay, an’ the color’s altered,” said Moll. 

Both women had been weeping, and even now 
restrained their tears with difficulty. There was a 
kind of desperate resignation in their look and 
manner as became those who were bracing them- 
selves up to bear a great blow. Erin looked from 
one to the other, turning sick and cold; she had never 
been so near death before, and the awfulness of it 
overwhelmed her. This inevitable, terrible, unspeak- 
able mystery, which was about to be brought close 
to her, by which her friend and father would be 
snatched away from her, even while she clung to 
him — eternity itself, as it were, entering the homely 
chamber to engulf him under her very eyes — for a 
moment the terror of it outweighed her anguish. 

She crept out of the parlor, where this colloquy 
had taken place, and went upstairs to the familiar 
room, standing trembling, with her hand on the 
handle of the door, her heart beating violently. 
But presently she conquered herself and entered, all 
her fear vanishing at the first sight of the dearly- 
loved face. It had changed since she saw it last, 
but for the better, she thought; a certain settled 
majesty of line and expression had taken possession 
of it — it had even lost the drawn look which it had 
worn for so many days. But the white hair lay damp 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


99 


and heavy on Father LaloFs brow, and he breathed 
with difficulty. He smiled at her as she approached, 
and then his thoughts floated away from her again to 
the empire of that vast world which he was so soon 
to enter. His lips moved, and the child bent over 
him to listen. 

'' To Thee, O Lord, the angels cry aloud ”... he 
murmured, over and over again. 

^'Ah,” said Mrs. Riley, who had followed Erin 
into the room, he’s been saying it ever since 
morning. You know what it is, dear? . . . It’s from 
the Te Deum.'' 

Moll entered presently, with the priest who had 
attended Father Lalor during his illness. The old 
man had squared his accounts with his Master 
long before, and now merely greeted his young 
companion-in-arms with the same comfortable smile 
which he had bestowed on Erin, and betook himself 
again to the great half-open gate through which he 
had already caught the echo of angels’ voices. It 
was his last sign of recognition; already he had wan- 
dered beyond their reach, though they clasped his 
hand and listened to his voice. Erin’s young and 
passionately human heart rebelled; he was there still, 
and she was dearest of all to him. Would he not 
look at her once, only once more, return a single 
pressure of her hand? She thrust her poor, little, 
eager, quivering face forward as he turned his head, 
and cried aloud: 

“ Oh, father, father, dear father, speak to your 
little Erin! Only one word — one word. Look at 
me, just look at me, to show you hear me,” 


100 


FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. 


But Father Lalor heard no more; his eyes were 
fixed on things that she could not see; he had gone 
too far on his great journey to pause or to look back. 

Erin sank down on her knees again, and for some 
time there was no sound in the room but that of the 
patient’s labored breathing, and the low tones of the 
young priest. Then there came a silence, a long 
silence, broken at last by the voice of the old man. 

Mother!” 

He had raised his head for a moment, with an 
expression of astonishment and unutterable joy — and 
then it fell back. 

He was gone. A great awe fell upon them all. 
For a moment no one stirred or wept. At last — 

Our mother came to fetch him,” said Mrs. Riley, 
tremulously. 

Oh, no, ma’am, sure it was the Holy Virgin 
herself he saw,” added Moll, stooping to kiss the 
inert hand. 

Whether it was indeed the mother of his youth, 
upon whom the white-haired priest called with his 
last breath, or that other Mother, whom for all time 
all nations shall call blessed, certain it is that he died 
with that hallowed word upon his lips. It was a meet 
end to his most simple and innocent life — as a little 
child he entered the kingdom of Heaven. 


CHAPTER IX. 


ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 

J N the general grief and confusion which ensued, no 
one had time to notice Erin, and she crept sadly 
out of the silent house and into the desolate garden. 
But the sight of the bony old horse grazing in the 
adjoining paddock smote her with the sudden keen 
anguish with which we look on the familiar things 
which the beloved dead will need no more. The 
horse raised his lean neck and looked over the hedge 
as though he expected his old master to call and 
caress him, and Erin, uttering a little cry, threw 
herself down in a corner of the garden, too much 
stunned to weep, hut unspeakably desolate. 

At last she was roused by Moll’s voice calling her, 
and rising, she re-entered the hall, where she found 
Miss Riddick awaiting her. 

Would you like to look at him now. Miss Erin, 
dear? We have him laid out an’ he looks beautiful.” 

Erin followed her upstairs without speaking, but 
trembling like an aspen leaf, and once more a prey to 
a fear which she would have died rather than own. 

The shutters were closed, and the room draped 
with black and lighted only with wax candles. For 
a moment Erin’s limbs almost gave way beneath her, 
and she paused on the threshold, scarcely daring to 
101 


102 ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 

look towards the bed. But at the first glance her 
dread again melted away, and irrepressible tears 
gushed from her eyes. Robed as for Mass in full 
vestments, his hands clasping crucifix and rosary, his 
face absolutely placid, and wearing its usual gentle 
smile. Father Lalor looked exactly like his own 
familiar self. As Erin gazed at him she almost ex- 
pected him to open his eyes and speak to her. She 
drew near and kissed the clasped hands, feeling no 
fear now though they were so cold, and gazing ten- 
derly on the kind face. 

By and by Mrs. Riley would have led her away 
but she refused; and during the ensuing days the 
dead priest’s former parishioners who came flocking 
to steaha last look at him, grew familiar with the sight 
of the slight figure kneeling or crouching in a corner. 

But all too soon they bore him away to the little 
chapel where he had so often prayed and preached; 
and his flock gathered round him-for the last time. 

There is something peculiarly touching about the 
funeral of a priest, especially one of the stamp of 
Father Lalor. The coffin — placed at the foot of the 
altar steps, on the very spot where he usually stood — 
the worn old biretta, the chalice and paten, always 
used by him, on the top; the familiar solemn words 
repeated by strange lips over him who had so often 
shed tears as he pronounced them over others; his 
homely friends could picture his face still with its un- 
feigned sorrow as he blessed their dead, could hear 
the very tones of his voice. And it was he who lay 
there now so still, who was about to be carried out of 
his own church and laid under the sod! 


ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 103 


It was over at last — even the keening had come 
to an end, and the crowd had melted away; only a 
few knots of people lingering here and there near 
the churchyard. 

Erin, kneeling unobserved behind a tomb, over- 
heard one man asking another, who did he think 
they'd be havin’ now in place of Father Lalor. 

“Ah, God knows,” was the reply. “ Maybe some 
stranger altogether. A young priest, most likely. 
Father Lalor wasn’t above thirty when he came here. 
I’ve heard him say. We’ll be apt to find the differ — 
God be with the holy man that’s gone.” 

Erin sprang up — somehow this aspect of the 
matter had not hitherto struck her. A new priest, a 
stranger in Father Lalor’s place! Now, indeed, she 
realized that he was gone — gone for ever! Not even 
the sight of the coffin, the lowering of it into the 
grave, had brought her loss home to her as did this 
chance phrase. It was inevitable, of course, that 
Father Lalor should have a successor — but oh! how 
should she bear it? 

She climbed over the low churchyard wall, and 
ran as fast as she could to her favorite mountain seat, 
where she flung herself down, abandoning herself to 
her misery. 

She had no one now — no friend, no father. “Mam- 
mie” Nolan was miles and miles away — in another 
world, as it seemed to her. She was all alone in the 
world she knew, with no one to care for her, no one to 
confide in, no one who would mind whether she lived 
or died, no one to love. How should she live without 
some one to love? She sat up and looked round her, 


104 ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 

as though to read her answer in sea and mountain and 
sky; and all at once it seemed to the passionate and 
imaginative little creature that there was indeed an 
answer there. The beautiful pure dome, blue, change- 
ful, transparent, as only Irish skies and Irish eyes can 
be, filled her with a sense of rest; and around and 
beneath her the exquisite, glowing colors of hillside 
and landscape appeared to woo her, to appeal to her 
as they had never done before. 

'' My motherland, I will love you,^' cried Erin, 
kneeling and stretching out her arms, ''I will love 
you — you only. I will devote myself from this 
moment to you — entirely and for ever ... heart 
and soul. Erin, my mother, I will love you!^’ 

The sea-birds were calling each other yonder, and 
faint echoes of their cries broke the silence which 
ensued; the peewits, circling over her head, whistled 
as they whirled and dipped; the breeze rustled softly 
through the heather, and from the far distance 
sounded the bleating of mountain flocks, the lowing 
of kine — earth’s voices, as the child thought, indors- 
ing her vow. 

She left her rocky eyrie, and wandered for a little 
space along the crest of the hill — her face glowing, 
hey e3^es kindling in spite of her recent tears. How 
beautiful this mother of hers was, how well worthy 
of all love, all devotion! 

But when her eyes strayed towards the spot where 
her old friend lay at rest, she. wept again and sank 
down on the mossy slope, stretching out her arms as 
though to clasp it. 

'' Oh, my mother Ireland, I am sad and lonely. 


ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 1 ( 5 


You are all I have — love me, and I will love 
you/' 

Stretched thus upon the warm and fragrant hillside, 
this curious, fanciful little maid told herself that she 
was lying upon her mother's bosom, and felt soothed 
and comforted. 

No one who was not thoroughly acquainted with 
the girl's peculiar nature, and who had not realized 
the effect produced upon it by her unusual surround- 
ings and education, could understand the phase into 
which she now entered. She had, to begin with, in- 
herited very opposite qualities from her parents — her 
father having endowed her with much of his dreami- 
ness and impracticableness; and the peasant blood of 
her mother carrying with it certain characteristics of 
its own. The child could love passionately, and 
idealize the object of her love — she could hate and 
resent savagely. She had acquired just enough out- 
of-the-way knowledge to suit her already exuberant 
fancy, but was ignorant of all save the rudiments of an 
ordinary education. She was absolutely undisciplined, 
and, at the same time, curiously reserved. One can 
imagine, therefore, the need of such a nature, sud- 
denly cast loose from all its moorings, to devote itself 
to some worthy object. From her earliest childhood, 
Erin had been accustomed to hear the praises of her 
country sung in every tune — the beauty, the sorrows 
of Ireland — the devoted love of Irishmen for their 
native land — these were the themes with which she 
was most familiar. Her own recent griefs were 
associated with the troubles of her country — all her 
hopes and dreams bound up with its destiny — what 


106 ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 


wonder, then, if she now gave herself up to the vivid 
fancy which had taken possession of her, and which 
represented her mother, Ireland, as a living, beautiful 
being — a being to give one’s life for, to love with an 
ardent, personal love! 

Poor, little, fiery-hearted, eager creature, so full of 
fancies and emotions and wild impossible plans! 
How quickly would her dream-worship have been 
forgotten, her poetical fancies have taken wing, had 
she but found herself once more in Mary Nolan’s 
honest, hard-working arms, and felt her rough- 
grained, weather-worn cheek pressed to hers. 

Shortly after Father Lalors death she made a 
discovery which gave a new impetus to her enthu- 
siasm. Stowed away in an old cupboard in one of 
the attics, she came upon a locked manuscript book, 
which she immediately guessed must have belonged 
to her father. Trembling with delight and eagerness, 
Erin went down to question Martha, and learned that 
her surmise was correct, and that, moreover, Martha 
believed she could find the key of that diary. 

He gave the book to me the day before he was 
took,” she said, and told me to hide it for fear the 
police Tid be cornin’ to search the house. And so I 
did — where d’ye think? At the bottom o’ the flour 
barrel. Little did the master think that every bit of 
bread that went into his mouth those times was 
flavored with treason. But, after all, the things 
poor Master Gerald got printed in the papers was 
enough for the police — and the speeches he made, 
and his goin’ off to try an’ fight! Well, well. I’ll 
find ye the key. Miss Erin, dear. Who’d have the 


ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD. 107 


right to read that book if you hadn't? ' Keep it for 
me till I come back/ says poor Mr. Gerald; but he 
never came back no more." 

She went to her own room, and presently returned 
with a very small key, rusty with long disuse. 

''There, missie," she said, "take it; an' don't let 
the master see ye, whatever ye do." 

Erin smiled and shook her head as she went away, 
and presently Martha saw her slight figure flash past 
the window and disappear among the trees. 

" It'll maybe do her good, an' take her thoughts off 
a bit," said the good woman to herself. " She's been 
mopin' dreadful, poor dear, ever since Father Lalor 
went." 

Erin, meanwhile, sped away to her eyrie, and there, 
on her knees, opened this record of her father's 
thoughts and doings. Such thoughts, such plans, 
such high hopes, such rash doings and short-lived 
triumphs! And throughout the book, from the first 
page to the last, what love, what enthusiasm, what 
passionate devotion to the motherland unto whom 
Erin had vowed her life! 

One may fancy the effect of this discovery on such 
a nature; how every line stirred her heart and fired 
her imagination; what tears she shed, what a hero 
she made of this poor dead father of hers! His perils, 
his adventures, his passionate belief in the justice of 
his cause — and then the melancholy sequel, impris- 
onment, exile, death in a foreign land. All this made 
him more than a hero in her eyes — he was a martyr, 
she said, unconsciously adopting a word applied often 
enough to him and his companions by enthusiastic 


108 ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD, 


adherents. How glad and proud she was to be his 
daughter, and how fervently she prayed to be worthy 
of him! She, too, would fain work and suffer for 
Ireland — die if need be. Meanwhile she might per- 
haps write something — like her father — to call 
attention to, and arouse compassion for Ireland’s 
wrongs. Her father had begun early; an allusion in 
his journal to his first poem having been written in 
his sixteenth year caught her eye at once. Why 
should not she begin — now? She was not very much 
younger, and she was sure she could write prose and 
poetry, too. There were several sheets of writing 
paper and some stamps in the little desk that Mrs. 
Riley had given her on leaving. She would compose 
a poem straightway, and send it to a newspaper — 
perhaps if she told them whose daughter she was, 
they would put it in. Her heart beat fast at the idea — 
here was something to live for — life was not all dark 
while it held such a prospect as this. Ideas, and words 
in which to express them, came thronging to her 
mind there and then; and she had composed the first 
stanzas of her poem before she came down from her 
heights; her dreamy manner, and little transfigure 1 
face, puzzling Martha on her return home. 


CHAPTER X. 


AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

W HEN Erin’s poem was written, in her very best 
hand on the largest sheet of note-paper, she 
surveyed it with a curious mixture of feelings. It 
dealt with the wrongs and sufferings of the Irish 
people, inveighed in fiery language against the 
alien oppressors, but did not quite come up to the 
ideal poems which had long been floating in embryo 
condition in Erin’s fancy. She was pleased with it on 
the whole, however, and the last stanza struck her as 
distinctly fine. With trembling hands she signed her 
name, ''Erin,” folded up the paper, and enclosed it in 
an envelope. After a little reflection she wrote a short 
letter to the editor of a certain newspaper, which she 
had often seen in the hands of "Daddy Pat,” introduc- 
ing herself as the daughter of Gerald Eitzgerald, and 
asking him for her father’s sake to insert her poem. 
As she was not yet fourteen and quite ignorant of the 
rules of versification, she trusted its faults would be 
excused, and hoped to do better work in future. A 
copy of the paper was lent to her by one of Pat’s 
friends, and she had no difficulty in directing and 
dispatching her packet; but, as she forgot to give her 
own address, it is not surprising that she received no 
acknowledgment. 

Her poem was inserted, however, and she saw it 


109 


110 AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

with her own eyes in a narrow sheet which, after what 
seemed an interminable week, Tim Hoolahan lent 
her. There was an editorial note, moreover, affixed 
to it. '' We should be glad to hear more of ‘ Erin,’ 
who has, by the way, omitted to send us her address. 
Her father’s name, though she does not authorize us 
to mention it here, is in itself a passport to this journal, 
and her own work gives distinct promise for the 
future, besides being, as it stands, spirited and vigor- 
ous. We warmly welcome this new advocate of our 
cause, whose extreme youth makes her ardor the 
more admirable.” 

The flimsy page swam before Erin’s eyes; her pride 
and joy rendered her speechless for a moment or two. 

What is it — what is it at all. Miss Erin, dear? ” 
asked Tim Hoolahan, watching her in amazement, as 
she stood, apparently transfixed, outside his cabin 
door. Mrs. Tim came forward, clapping her hands, 
and making inarticulate sounds with her tongue. 

‘Xook,Tim,” gasped Erin at last, breaking through 
her customary reserve in her need of sympath}^ 

that’s my poetry — there. I wrote it, and they have 
printed it.” 

Tim’s ecstasy knew no bounds; he was almost as 
proud as Pat himself could have been. This news 
flew like wildfire round the village, and before 
twenty-four hours had elapsed, the fame of Erin’s 
achievement had spread even to the outlying farms 
and cottages. 

On the following Sunday she received quite a little 
ovation on leaving the chapel after Mass. 

It’s yourself that’s a true chip o’ the ould block, 


AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. Hi 


Miss Erin asthore,” cried one man. God bless you 
for standing up for ould L eland! exclaimed another, 
and presently they set up a resounding cheer for 
'' the patriot's daughter.’’ 

Thereupon Miss Erin, carried away by this sudden 
tide of enthusiasm, could do nothing less, as she con- 
ceived, than reward her little group of admirers by 
an impromptu harangue. She sprang up on the low 
wall which surrounded the churchyard, and informed 
them in a few brief sentences, tremulous with emotion, 
that her dearest hope was to tread in her father’s 
footsteps, that she had sworn to devote her whole life, 
and every faculty of which she was possessed, to the 
endeavor to secure the liberties of her country, and 
that she would be well-content to die, if by so doing 
she could set Ireland free. 

The cheering became so loud after this that Father 
Kelly, the new pries-t, who had been making his 
thanksgiving in the sacristy, came out to see what the 
matter was. 

He was a big, burly man with a broad good- 
humored face, and a strong Kerry accent; a great 
contrast to Father Lalor in many respects, but almost 
as zealous and kind-hearted. He was not particularly 
pleased on discovering the cause of the present 
demonstration. 

''Ah, be off home out o’ this, all c'f you! ” he cried, 
shouldering, his way through the crowd, and speaking- 
in tones of great exasperation. " Sure, ye ought to 
be ashamed to* be blockin’ up the road that way, and 
makin’ fools of yourselves, roarin’ and bawlin’ round 
a poor little slip of a girl. Get down out o’ that now. 


112 AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES, 


my dear, and go and say yonr beads in the chapel till 
all these fellows have gone off with themselves/' 

He gave Erin his hand, and she descended meekly 
and somewhat precipitately, accompanying him 
straightway to the chapel, where she shed bitter tears 
of shame and mortification. She knew in her heart 
that Father Kelly was right, and that she had acted 
foolishly and wrongly; but it was cruel of him to 
humiliate her before all these people. At least, he 
should have respected her motives. She told him so 
presently with flashing eyes, but was rather discon- 
certed on being peremptorily cut short. Father Kelly 
bidding her run home as quick as she could, and take 
care to keep out of mischief. 

'' Mischief! " she cried. '' How can there be mis- 
chief in devoting one's self to one's country? How 
can I help loving Ireland and feeling maddened at her 
wrongs? You are a true Irishman, Father Kelly; you 
should be glad that I am anxious to work for the 
cause." 

Father Kelly burst into a jolly Ho! ho! ho!" 
which woke the echoes of that lonely place, and made 
Erin crimson with anger. 

Faith, the cause'll get on without ye, my child," 
he said, as soon as he had recovered his gravity; 
'' sure, what do we want with little girls? If you were 
a woman itself — but even so, it's men's work — -men’s 
work. Pray for the cause as much as you like," he 
added, more seriously, '' and do what ye can for the 
poor; but don't be speechifying an’ talkin' to the boys 
at all. It's not your place, and if your poor father 
was alive, it’s the last thing he’d wish." 


AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES, 113 


Erin was sobered by this last remark, and went 
home hanging her head, and feeling her patriotic 
ardor considerably damped. After all, she could al- 
ways write, she said to herself when her spirits had 
rallied in some degree. Lots of girls, young girls, 
too, wrote for the '' Nation ’’ in former days, and 
every one praised them for it. She would write and 
work for Ireland in that way, if she might not take a 
more prominent position just at present. 

But even this project was put to an end, too — a 
new and most unexpected adversary to Erin’s hopes 
suddenly interfering. The priest had put a stop to 
her expounding her views by word of mouth, and the 
parson now interposed to prevent her writing. 

The vicar of Glenmor, a refined and kind-he'arted 
man with a large family, had long been exercised in 
his mind with regard to Erin. Many a time the good 
man and his wife had shaken their heads over the little, 
wild-looking creature, as she passed them defiantly on 
the roads, or gazed at them with fierce suspicion when 
they ventured into the cabins of any of her humble 
friends. 

When Mrs. Coventry heard af her last escapade 
from her cook, who chanced to be an eye-witness of 
the scene outside the chapel, and was shown Erin’s 
poem, she was neither surprised nor indignant. In- 
deed, her heart, which was a sensible and motherly 
one enough, ached for the probable consequences 
of the girl’s folly, and she took the paper straightway 
to her husband, urging him as a man and the. father of 
a family, to interfere. 

They will be making a sort of 'Goddess of Reason’ 


114 AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 


of the poor child, if something isn't done," she 
cried. 

'' But, my dear," said her husband, wrinkling up his 
brow and looking sorely puzzled, it's very dreadful, 

I know, but what can I do ? " 

Do? " said Mrs. Coventry. Just go and tell that 
horrid old man to send his niece to school. Tell him 
she'll be ruined, and he'll be disgraced if he doesn't 
take care. And tell him there are lots of nice schools 
where they'll take her cheap. Tell him it would be 
less expensive in the long run and save him a great 
deal of worry." 

''Very well, my dear, I will do what I can, but I 
expect to be badly received," replied the vicar, walk- 
ing away thoughtfully. 

Mr. Fitzgerald received him as he foretold, very 
badly; his representations, however, had more effect 
than he anticipated, and the sight of Erin's luckless 
verses threw the old man into a fury of which his 
visitor had not conceived him capable. He used lan- 
guage most unfit for clerical ears, and stamped about 
the room in a perfect frenzy, declaring that the girl 
was worse even than her father, and that he would 
cast her off, as he had cast off him. 

" If she were a boy, Fd flog her within an inch of 
her life first," he cried; " but, being a girl " 

" Being a girl," said Mr. Coventry, quietly, " of 
course you can neither beat her nor turn her out of 
doors. Why don’t you do as my wife says — send her 
to school? They would soon knock all that nonsense 
out of her there, and get her properly under control. 
Besides, as Mrs. Coventry says " 


AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 115 

Hereupon the vicar recapitulated all his wife’s 
arguments as persuasively as he could, and was 
rejoiced to find that they did produce some impres- 
sion. He finished by making an original statement 
of his own, -and one which, indeed, he was doubtful 
if Constance would have authorized, but which he 
rightly judged would have weight with Mr. Fitzgerald. 

What is to become of the girl if you don’t educate 
her? ” he urged. “ Do you mean her to be a burden 
to you all your life? ” 

''Eh?” queried Mr. Fitzgerald. "No — of course not. 
I didn’t think about it. She seemed such a child.” 

" She is quite old enough to get into mischief, you 
see,” replied the vicar. " She’s a clever girl — yes, 
even these verses, crude and childish as they are ” — 
he laughed a little — " prove there’s a good deal in 
her. Now, a nature of that description runs riot in 
idleness. With proper training it may become some- 
thing fine ” 

" Yes, the little devil, I know she’s clever,” growled 
Fitzgerald. " I used to teach her myself, you know — 
I meant to educate her altogether; and if I had I 
tell you the world would have heard of her in the 
future. But she won’t read with me now — defies me, 
by ” 

" Yes, yes, so I have heard,” interposed Mr. Coven- 
try, hastily. " Well, as I say, you don’t wish her to be 
on your hands all her life; why don’t you put her in 
the way of doing something for herself ? Place her 
in a good school for four years, say. At the end of 
that time she will be perfectly independent, and com- 
petent to earn her own living. But if you don’t edu- 


116 AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 


cate her she never will be able to do anything for 
herself — you will be obliged to keep her here always, 
and she will probably be perpetually in hot water.” 

'' Is there any particular school that you recom- 
mend? ” asked Mr. Fitzgerald, suddenly. 

The vicar laughed confusedly, a little taken aback at 
the prompt and unexpected success of his maneuvres. 

'' Well, no. I am not in the way of knowing any- 
thing about Roman Catholic schools,” he began; but 
Mr. Fitzgerald interrupted him impatiently. 

I didn’t mention any denomination, did I ? ” 

No,” returned Mr. Coventry, '' you didn’t, but, of 
course, you meant to.” He looked steadily at the 
other, and laughed again. '' I have not the least in- 
tention of meddling with your niece’s religion, Mr. 
Fitzgerald; and, let me tell you, the place would be 
too hot to hold either you or me if I did. I daresay I 
could hear of some suitable school if you will allow me 
to make inquiries,” he added. '' I fancy it would be 
your best plan to send her abroad for a few years, to 
France or Germany — or Belgium. I believe Brus- 
sels is an excellent place for education. It would be 
just as well for her to be out of Ireland, and she would 

learn languages better in a foreign country ” 

I shan’t send her to any convent,” cried Mr. 
Fitzgerald. 

'T am not likely to recommend that,” said the vicar. 

'^Constance would say I had lost an opportunity,” 
he mused, as he walked away. ^That child might have 
been sent to a church school if I had taken her uncle 
at his word. But there are some things I stick at — 
and she needn’t know anything about it.” 


AUTHORSHIP AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 117 

Mr. Coventry’s inquiries resulted in the recom- 
mendation of a certain small school in Brussels, 
kept by a French lady for the benefit of English 
girls, as the prospectus set forth, though there is some 
reason to doubt if Mademoiselle Desmanet’s philan- 
thropy would have sustained her under the wear and 
tear of a school-mistress's life, if some slight beneht 
had not also accrued to herself. 

Her terms were not exorbitant, and the advantages 
she offered appeared to be considerable. Besides per- 
sonally conducting the French education of her pupils 
and being a native of Paris and diploinec — Mademoi- 
selle Desmanet ventured to hope that this was a mate- 
rial consideration — she had secured the services of the 
very best professors of the Belgian capital for music, 
drawing and German; the food provided was plentiful 
and of admirable quality; and it was her object to 
unite maternal care with every possible facility for 
education. 

Fitzgerald tossed the letter contemptuously on one 
side; he cared little about the maternal care and the 
quality of the food. His niece would be well taught 
at reasonable outlay; this was enough for him. 

As soon as her very modest outfit was ready, there- 
fore, Erin was shipped off. Martha was to put her 
on board the mail steamer; and through the kindness 
of the Coventrys, a certain Miss Ellis, a school-mis- 
tress who was taking over some English pupils to her 
establishment in Brussels, agreed to meet her in Lon- 
don, and take charge of her during the remainder of 
the journey. 


CHAPTER XL 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 

journey to London, the meeting with Miss 
Ellis — a sharp-looking lady, with spectacles 
and very gleaming white teeth — the long, weary drive 
to St. Katherine’s wharf — all seemed to Erin like a 
nightmare. 

Miss Ellis was too busy with her particular charges 
to have much time to attend to her once they boarded 
the Baron Osy^ and having procured some refresh- 
ment for her, and engaged her berth, left her very 
much to her own devices. 

Erin, therefore, made her way, unmolested, to a 
retired corner of the deck, where she curled herself 
up on a bench, drawing the end of her cloak over 
her face to conceal, as best she might, her wretched- 
ness from the eyes of the passers-by. She was in 
many ways no longer a child, yet this overwhelming 
despair and misery were the despair and misery of a 
child — a child to whom yesterday and to-morrow 
seem alike unutterably remote; to-day in its happiness 
or suffering being all-sufficient and apparently eternal. 

It was dusk, almost dark, when she raised her head, 
and only a few travellers were pacing the deck. Erin 
watched them vaguely from her corner, occasionally 
catching fragments of their conversation. Now an 


118 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


119 


elderly couple passed her, trotting nimbly up and 
down, evidently absorbed in calculations. 

“You forgot the soda water, my dear — that was six- 
pence,’’ said the old lady. 

“ Iniquitous! ” returned the old gentleman. “You 
didn’t tip the chambermaid, I hope. They charged 
attendance in the bill.” 

The reply was inaudible, which rather disappointed 
Erin, who had never heard of “ tipping ” before, and 
wondered what it might be. 

Next came two of Miss Ellis’ charges walking arm- 
in-arm, giggling incessantly, and casting glances over 
their shoulders. 

Unsophisticated Erin had never before been 
brought in contact with any specimens of a genus 
which may be classified “ common English school- 
girl,’'’ and took an instinctive dislike to this couple. 
They conversed chiefly in whispers, but she overheard 
a phrase here and there: “Pity he hasn’t a mous- 
tache I ” “ Would you call him stuck-up ? ” “ He 

looked very hard at you the last time we passed.” 

Presently Erin became aware that the glances and 
the giggles were aimed at a certain solitary young 
man, who was pacing up and down, smoking a cigar- 
ette, and quite unconscious of these maneuvres. 

By and by the biggest and boldest of the two 
young ladies dropped her handkerchief right in his 
path, and walked on, pinching her companion’s arm 
as she passed Erin, and announcing in a chuckling 
whisper, “ That ’ll fetch him ! ” 

But the object of their kind attentions stepped over 
it absently and strolled on, his eyes wandering vaguely 


120 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


over the water, thinking of nothing less appa>rently 
than of the two hoidens. Altering their tactics, there- 
fore, they turned round sharply, so as to face him the 
next time his measured walk approached the hand- 
kerchief, and the owner stopped directly opposite him 
so abruptly as to bring him to a sudden halt. 

^'My handkerchief,’’ she murmured, with a pleading 
glance. 

The young man, with a surprised look, picked it 
up and presented it to her; then he raised his hat 
and walked on. 

'' I call him a perfect gentleman, don’t you? ’’ 
murmured the gratified damsel. 

'' How he looked at you, Ethel! ” replied the other. 

I am sure he was longing to talk — oh, I say, there’s 
Miss Ellis coming up the steps! Whatever will she 
say? She must have seen the whole thing. My! 
Ethel, you’ll catch it! ” 

'' Miss Briggs and Miss Hopkins, have the kind- 
ness to come down to the saloon!” observed the 
person in question, the expression of whose face 
implied that the inference of the young lady was well 
founded. They both disappeared precipitately down 
the companion; and their quarry, upon whom the 
state of affairs appeared at length to dawn, smiled to 
himself in amusement and, as Erin fancied, contempt. 

He was a tall young man, fair, with a clean-shaven 
face and good features, and Erin looked at him well; 
for she wondered why on earth those girls had been 
so anxious to make acquaintance with him, stranger 
as he evidently was. He had a long coat, which 
seemed to fit well, and his hands were slender and 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS, 


121 


well-shaped and brown. There was nothing exactly 
remarkable about him; and yet, a certain something 
in his air attracted Erin’s attention, though she was 
only a little girl, a something which seemed to indicate 
that he was a personage. Perhaps he was a celebrity, 
and that was why those girls had tried to get him to 
talk to them. Well, they were very forward in their 
way of setting about it, and Erin did not wonder he 
had been disgusted with them. They were rude, 
vulgar girls — and these were the companions with 
whom she would be thrown in future, she supposed! 
Oh, for the gentle Maggie Nolan, with her modest 
little face, in which the color came and went so 
quickly when she talked to a stranger! 

The tears flashed to her eyes again — she was over- 
tired and overwrought, and they were dangerously 
near the surface. She fumbled for her handkerchief, 
but in vain. It was not in her pocket nor in her lap, 
nor beside her on the seat. She rose, hunting about 
with a troubled face and dim eyes. 

'' I think this is yours,” said a voice beside her, and 
the gentleman afore-described held out the handker- 
chief, which had fallen under the bench. 

Erin flushed crimson — surely he would not think 
she had dropped it on purpose, like that other horrid 
creature! In her surprise and agitation, the tears 
which had been gathering in her eyes leaped out on 
her cheeks, and stood there, for she did not dare to 
wipe them away. The young man, who had been 
passing on, paused suddenly; and, after a moment’s 
hesitation, sat dorwn beside her. The pretty pale face, 
the tears, the lonely little figure touched him; it struck 


122 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


him all at once that the handkerchief which he had 
handed to her had felt very damp. 

“ Going to school? ” he said gently, with a pleasant 
smile. 

He took Erin to be quite a child, and, in truth, she 
looked much younger than she was. Her dress, an 
old blue serge, was very short. Martha had thought 
it good enough to travel in, and advised her not to 
put on her new one (which came down to her heels) 
till she arrived in Brussels. She wore a red Conne- 
mara cloak, which the country draper had declared 
to be the height of the fashion, and her dark curls 
escaped in utter confusion from beneath her plain 
sailor hat. 

Yes, I am going to school,’' she said; but ” — 
drawing herself up a little haughtily — have 
nothing to say to those other girls who were here 
just now.” 

'' I did not in any way connect you with them,” he 
returned with a smile, which he quickly suppressed, as 
he saw a momentary flash of resentment in Erin’s eyes. 

There was a pause; Erin looked over the boat’s 
side, wishing he would go away; and he looked at her, 
and thought of the damp handkerchief, and wondered 
what he could say to console her. 

I suppose it is an experience we must all go 
through,” he observed, after a pause. '' I hated it 
myself, but the home-sickness soon wears off, and 
one doesn’t mind the lessons after a bit.” 

Oh, I don’t mind the lessons,” cried Erin, quickly. 

I like learning — the more I learn the better — but 
I — I can’t bear going away.’^ 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS, 


123 


She turned away her head again, and her fellow 
traveller saw those tell-tale tears steal slowly over 
the rim of her cheek, and others creep down to take 
their place. 

Don’t cry,” he said gently. I know it’s very 
hard, but after the first it won’t be so bad; and then, 
you know, there will be letters to look forward to, 
and the holidays — time soon passes.” 

But Erin’s rueful face did not brighten, and her 
new friend presently broke fresh ground. 

'' I should think,” he observed, apparently half to 
himself, '' it must be rather pleasant at a girl’s school. 
Girls are such sociable creatures — there is always so 
much chatting going on among them, and so many 
little excitements and secrets ” 

''Just what I should hate,” remarked Erin, still 
without turning her head. 

"You’ll have half-a-dozen intimate friends before 
you have been there a month,” he continued, 
laughing outright. 

Erin faced him. 

" I am not a person who makes friends easily,” she 
said; and then, assuming a charming little air of 
dignity, she half rose, as though to put an end to 
the conversation. 

" Perhaps,” said the gentleman suddenly altering 
his tone, and rising too, " perhaps you think I 
have taken a great liberty in venturing to accost 
you? ” 

Erin looked up quickly. His voice and general 
expression were serious, but there was a latent 
laughter in his eyes which put her on her mettle. 


124 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


'' I am not used to travelling by myself/’ she said in 
her most lofty manner; '' but I do think strangers 
should not talk to each other.” 

'' You are quite right, as a general rule; but when 
one sees a little girl sitting in a corner all alone, and 
crying her eyes out, surely it is only natural to try 
and console her.” 

The gray eyes which were looking down into hers 
were smiling still, but more kindly. Erin suddenly felt 
very small, and young, and forlorn — after all, it was 
good of him to care about her being unhappy. 
The expression of her face changed, and her eyes 
fell. 

^^Am I forgiven?” said he. ''Then, I suppose, 
I may sit down again ” — suiting the action to the 
word. "Now” — persuasively — "tell me all about 
your troubles. You’ll feel better afterwards.” 

Erin shook her head. What! confide her private 
sorrows, the wreck of her dearest hopes, the anguish 
which she felt at separating from a country romantic- 
ally beloved, to this utter stranger? Why, she could 
not have told them to Father Lalor. 

" I would rather not talk about myself or my 
troubles,” she said, drawing back a little. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

" Very well, then; but you must not think of them 
either. Let us talk of something else. What are you 
most fond of — music,, drawing, reading? ” 

" Oh, reading! ” cried Erin, eagerly; " I love 
reading.” 

" I knew you did, by the look of you. Now, what 
sort of reading do you like best? — story-books, of 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


125 


course. Don’t be a prig and say you like history, for 
I am sure you don’t! Who is your favorite author — 
Mrs. Molesworth or Miss Yonge? ” 

“ I never heard of either — I think Sophocles is my 
favorite author — at least I like ‘ The Antigone ’ 
better than anything I have ever read.” 

“'The Antigone?’” queried Her companion, raising 
his eyebrows, and looking at her with amused surprise. 
“ Oh, Jebb’s, I suppose? ” 

“ No, it is by Sophocles,” returned Erin, in utter 
good faith, and unable to understand his amusement. 

“ Is this child a humbug? ” he thought to himself, 
“ or is she trying to take me in? ” 

Meeting her candid eyes, however, he abandoned 
both suppositions, and set himself to draw her out 
with renewed interest. In a short time, he ascertained 
that Erin liked the “ Odyssey ” too, also the Iliad ” 
— the “Iliad” she considered rather confused, though 
she admitted that “ bits ” were splendid. He listened, 
and laughed, and plied her with questions; and grad- 
ually she grew less cautious, and talked eagerly and 
excitedly, quoting a line now and then, which proved 
that her acquaintance with the works in question was 
genuine so far as it went. 

“And so you like 'AntigQne ’ best of all? ” he said, 
after a time. “ I wonder why.” 

“ Oh, because she’s so real,” returned the girl; “she 
might have lived yesterday. And then, I like her 
story — it was grand of her to lay down her life for a 
sacred cause.” 

“ I don’t know,” said the young man, teasingly; 
“she was rather silly, I think — No; she couldn’t 


126 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


have lived yesterday. Girls of our time are much 
wiser in their generation. You would not catch one 
of them running unnecessary risks, or making foolish 
sacrifices.’' 

'' Some would, though,” interrupted Erin, vehe- 
mently. '' I know I would. I would die for any cans 2 
I held dear.” 

The wind had freshened considerably, and Erin had 
taken off her hat, which she had been several times 
on the point of losing. The small white face, with its 
eager, parted lips and gleaming eyes, looked out from 
amid the dark fluttering masses of hair with weird 
effect, as she bent forward earnestly. It remained 
long in the man’s memory. What a tragic little face 
it was, and how the voice vibrated, and the small 
hands clenched themselves! 

They parted soon after this, for it was growing late, 
and the night was chilly. The pleasure of Erin’s com- 
pany was not sufficiently engrossing to conquer her 
new friend’s growing inclination for another stroll and 
a fresh cigarette — besides, it was time for the little 
girl to go down to the cabin. 

It was long before she fell asleep, though she was 
exhausted by the long journey. The varied emotions 
of the day had excited and disturbed her; and when 
she at length dropped into an uneasy doze, she was 
suddenly and rudely awakened. 

A shock, a horrible, grinding noise, succeeded by a 
tremor that seemed to shake the entire vessel — then 
a hurried sound of feet overhead, voices talking and 
shouting, shrill screams of women from the adjoining 
cabins. 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


127 


''What is it? what has happened?'’ cried Erin, 
sitting up in her berth. 

"We are wrecked! " cried her opposite neighbor, 
protruding a dishevelled head from under the blank- 
ets. Many loud ejaculations of horror, mingled with 
frantic calls for the captain and the stewardess, were 
uttered by the other occupants of the cabin. 

Meanwhile, most of the ladies had been hastily 
assuming their outer garments, and now rushed to 
the adjoining saloon. Erin, who had not undressed, 
reached the door first; but though the handle turned, 
the door would not yield to her efforts. 

" We are locked in,” she said, turning to the 
frightened- little crowd. If there had been noise 
before, it was nothing to the clamor which now 
arose. The occupants of all the ladies' cabins poured 
into the saloon — the school-girl contingent contrib- 
uting piercing yells; while Miss Ellis, without her hair 
and spectacles, but with her sealskin jacket supple- 
menting her flannel wrapper, frantically besought 
them to have a little self-control. 

The vessel was now quite still, the machinery no 
longer working! The noise overhead was as loud 
as ever, and presently there came the sound of ham- 
mering, upon which the hubbub in the ladies' saloon 
increased. 

" We have struck on a rock.” " We are going to 
the bottom.” " We are sinking.” " I feel the ship 
sinking.” " It is iniquitous to lock us in — will no 
one come near us? ” " We shall be left to drown like 
rats in a sinking ship! ” 

'Rats leave a sinking ship, don't they?” asked Erin, 


128 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


She alone of all the party was calm — so calm that she 
was a little surprised at herself. Was this really death? 
Would a few minutes find her in eternity? Well, per- 
haps it was all for the best . . . better to die now than 
to live and be miserable — but she wished those women 
would not scream so. It was a solemn moment. 

'' Look here,’' she said authoritatively, don’t you 
think if we are to die we had better think about it a 
little, and try to prepare? ” As she spoke, some one 
knocked at the other side of the door. 

''Antigone — is that you? ” 

"Yes,” she answered quickly. It was her acquaint- 
ance of the previous evening, and he could mean no 
one but her. 

" I thought I knew the voice,” he resumed with a 
laugh. " I have been trying for some time to attract 
your attention, but could not make myself heard 
through this outrageous din. How women can squeal 
when they like! Look here, don’t be frightened; there 
is not the least danger — we ran into another vessel in 
the fog and damaged ourselves a little — very little. 
An hour’s work will repair it, and the mishap will have 
no more consequences than making us rather late. 
Go to bed again, and tell those other women to do 
the same.” 

At this moment the gruff voice of the captain was 
heard endorsing his advice. 

"There is no danger, ladies, none at all! Return 
to your cabins, pray! ” 

" But why are we locked in? ” screamed a chorus 
of voices. 

" For the good reason that you would be in the 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


129 


way on deck. Besides, you would catch cold. Good- 
night, ladies. There is absolutely nothing to fear! ’’ 

'' Good-night, Antigone,’’ said the voice without. 

Good-night.” 

A sudden calm succeeded the storm of alarm, and 
some laughter was heard as each party trooped off 
to its cabin. 

Next morning, when Erin went on deck, paler and 
more melancholy than ever, now that the transitory 
excitement was over, and that her dreaded destination 
drew near, her friend approached her. 

Were you very much frightened last night?” he 
asked, after the first greetings had passed. 

No — I don’t think I was.’"' 

Come, you can’t expect me to believe that! 
Think again. What did you feel when the vessel 
stopped and quivered. Ugh! I must own I thought 
it exceedingly unpleasant.” 

I felt,” began Erin — then she paused, continuing 
with a smile, '' I felt rather astonished that I was not 
more frightened. I supposed we must be going to the 
bottom, and I thought that it didn’t much matter.” 

He laughed incredulously. ''You didn’t mind going 
to the bottom, in fact? ” 

Erin nodded. " Except for one thing,” she added, 
as an afterthought. " It seemed so stupid to be 
drowned without having done anything.” 

" Done anything! Do you mean done anything to 
deserve such a sad end? ” 

"No; I meant it seemed a pity to die without having 
done anything with one’s life.” 

"Well, you are a curious little creature!” ejaculated 


130 


FELLOW TRAVELLERS. 


he. '' I wonder what you mean to do with your life 
when you are old enough to be mistress of it! I 
should like to watch your career from afar; but how 
am I to do that if you will not tell me anything about 
yourself? Don’t you think you know me well enough 
now to tell me at least your name? ” 

Erin opened her lips, but shut them again, shaking 
her head. He would laugh and question her. How 
could she explain all the sacred associations which 
that name had for her, and the circumstances under 
which it came to be given? 

'' Won’t you tell me? What am I to call you, then, 
in my own mind? Antigone? ” 

'' You can call me dark Rosaleen,” said Erin, 
prompted by a sudden mischievous impulse to mystify 
him further. Rosih diibh or '' dark Rosaleen ” was 
indeed a synonym for her own name, being one of the 
mystical titles of Ireland. But this Saxon stranger, 
never having heard of it, laughed more than ever at 
what he took to be an unexpected piece of childishness. 

During the remainder of the journeythey conversed 
on indifferent topics, and parted at Antwerp excellent 
friends, the young man repeatedly expressing his hops 
that they would meet again. 

Erin retained grateful thoughts of him for a long 
time, and enshrined him in a special niche in her 
memory. 


PART IL— HARVEST. 


CHAPTER 1. 

STRANGE NEWS. 

<< jY^^I^EMOISELLE IRENE, mademoiselle 
sends you word that there is a gentleman in 
the drawing-room asking to see you.’' 

It was a servant who spoke in tones of subdued 
excitement. All the little pupils raised their heads 
eagerly. Many relays of them had come and gone 
during Erin’s four years’ residence at the place, but 
these were most of them of the same type and the 
same character as their predecessors with one notable 
exception. 

This, curiously enough, was an English girl who had 
come to Mademoiselle Desmanet’s establishment as a 
day-boarder shortly after Erin had become a resident. 
Her name was Joan Tweedale, and her parents. Sir 
Edward and Lady Tweedale, had left their home in 
the North of England that this, their only child might 
enjoy the advantages of foreign education and young 
companionship. In spite of the antagonism which 
Erin was at first disposed to feel towards one whom 
she regarded as an '' English aristocrat ” her preju- 
dices had speedily been dissipated, and a close and 
intimate friendship had sprung up between the two. 


132 


STRANGE NEWS. 


'' La, la,’' said little Marie Veringer, now, with a deri- 
sive grin, un monsieur pour mademoiselle! ” 

^^Ca, get up then, Irene! make haste,” cried Made- 
moiselle Berthe. ''Are these young ladies to be kept 
all day from their work because you do not choose to 
hurry yourself? ” 

Erin laid down her book and rose, trembling a little, 
and turning pale. 

She looked strangely out of place in that shabby 
room among those little girls. She was a tall maiden 
now — not so tall, perhaps, as she had promised to be 
in her childhood, but if she had not fulfilled her 
promise of unusual height, she had more than carried 
out her early indications of unusual beauty. Made- 
moiselle frequently upbraided her because people who 
passed her in the street turned round to look after 
her; but, in truth, it was difficult for any one who saw 
her to refrain from a second glance. And yet, of what 
avail to her was so much beauty? In her position it 
was distinctly a disadvantage. She had known now 
for some time, and Mademoiselle Desmanet had taken 
care that everyone in the house should know too, that 
she was to make her own way in the world, and that 
the education she was in process of receiving was to 
be her future stock-in-trade. This education would 
shortly be terminated, and when her eighteenth year 
was completed, she must begin to work for her living. 
Her uncle had sent her one of his rare letters to 
remind her of the fact but a week previously — what, 
then, was the meaning of this unexpected visit? "The 
gentleman ” could, of course, be no one else. Was 
he going to take her away at once — to take her away 


STRANGE NEWS. 


133 


from Joan? Joan, her only friend, to whom all the 
love of her young heart was given? Must she leave 
her now, and go out into the wide world? 

But she found a man who was a perfect stranger to 
her. A tall, iron-gray man, with a business-like aspect 
and a dry manner. He introduced himself as Mr. 
Kennedy, a lawyer from Dublin. 

You may have heard your uncle speak of me,'' he 
added. I was his man of business." 

Erin shook her head. He continued, after a short 
pause. 

You are aware, I presume, of the sad event which 
has taken place at Glenmor. No? " as she looked up 
in surprise. Dear me, I understood that the news 
had been broken to you. But every one seems to have 
lost their heads since it happened. Well, Miss Fitz- 
gerald " — clearing his throat • — '' I am afraid I must 
ask you to prepare to hear rather bad news about 
your uncle. Very bad news, I may say. He is — in 
point of fact, your uncle is dead." 

'' Dead! " repeated Erin, in a low voice. The shock 
was so great that she turned white to the very lips. 

'' It will appear a curious thing to you, Miss Fitz- 
gerald, knowing how exact and — ahem! careful about 
money your uncle was, that he should have made no 
will. But such is the fact. To the very last he resisted 
the representations of our firm that at his age, and 
with his large property, it was his positive duty to 
arrange for the disposal of it. But he invariably 
refused. Later on there would be time enough, he 
would say — he had not yet made up his mind as to 
the bestowal of it. However, as his death occurred 


134 


STRANGE NEWS. 


unexpectedly — he was found dead in his chair on 
Monday morning/^ added Mr. Kennedy, casually, 
'' the result hag been such as we frequently foretold to 
Mr. Fitzgerald. He died intestate, and the whole of 
the property, which we believe it was his intention to 
bequeath to different public institutions, has, in con- 
sequence, reverted to you as his nearest of kin. We 
have made strict search on the chance of his having 
made a will without consulting us, but none such is 
to be found; therefore, as matters stand, you are sole 
heiress of your uncle’s very considerable wealth.” 

Erin heard as though in a dream; continuing to 
watch Mr. Kennedy’s face even when he had ceased 
to speak. 

At last she said: I don’t understand — how can 
the money be mine if my uncle did not intend me to 
have it? ” 

'' M}^ dear Miss Fitzgerald, have no misgivings on 
that point. You should, no doubt, by right have 
inherited the property in any case; but your uncle 
was, as you know — eccentric in some ways, and if he 
had carried out his intention, there would probably 
have been what I cannot help calling a perversion of 
justice. Things are far better as they are. The 
property is yours beyond all doubt, and you must 
accept it and its attending responsibilities whether 
you like it or not.” 

“ Can I go back to Ireland at once, then? ” asked 
Erin, after a short pause. 

Mr. Kennedy looked a little taken aback. ‘‘ Where 
would you go? You have no relatives or friends, I 
believe? ” 


STRANGE NEWS, 


L35 


Couldn't I live at Glenmor with Martha? " 

“ I think that would hardly do/' said the lawyer. 

However, the decision does not rest with me. Being 
under age, you will probably be made a ward in 
Chancery, and the Lord Chancellor will appoint a 
guardian for you. Have you any friends with whom 
you could confer, and who would advise you with 
regard to your future? " 

There is Joan/' cried Erin, eagerly. '‘And I dare- 
say Sir Edward would be a good person to consult." 

"Sir Edward?" echoed Mr. Kennedy, interroga- 
tively. He had caught at the name. 

" Sir Edward Tweedale," said Erin; "he has always 
been kind to me, and is the father of my greatest 
friend. But he is rather a great man. He might not 
care to be bothered about me." 

" He is a great man, is he? " said Mr. Kennedy, 
who was- gradually getting less and less starched. 
" Well, you are a very important person, too. Pray, 
talk over the matter with your friends. Miss Fitz- 
gerald, and I will call upon Sir Edward Tweedale this 
afternoon. Do I understand you to say he is actually 
in Brussels now? " 

Erin, with some misgivings, gave his address, and 
Mr. Kennedy departed, leaving the girl still in a state 
of bewilderment. 

After a few moments, however, she recovered her- 
self sufficiently to ask Mademoiselle Desmanet's per- 
mission to call at once on the Tweedales. 

Joan Tweedale had attended mademoiselle's classes 
irregularly of late, and then simply as an excuse for 
meeting her adored Erin. The friendship which had 


136 


STRANGE NEWS. 


sprung up between them was more deep and true than 
ordinary girlish affections. It was not in Erin’s nature 
to do anything by halves, and the English girl was 
in her own way quite as thorough. She had, till com- 
ing to Brussels, lived a somewhat lonely life — always 
in the country and in the society of older people. Her 
parents, simple-minded and devoted people, who lived 
solely and entirely for her, congratulated themselves 
on the girl’s evident happiness and the rapid develop- 
ment of hitherto dormant faculties. They were too 
single-hearted to be jealous, and '' Joan’s friend ” was 
made almost as welcome to the Tweedale fireside as 
Joan herself. Whenever, at the latter’s instance, 
'mademoiselle gave Erin a holiday, there was jubila- 
tion in the household, an H every one, from Sir Edward 
himself to Alphonse the little page-boy, received her 
with a smile. Of late the friends had not met quite so 
frequently; Erin was working very hard to fit herself 
for her future career, and it was supposed that Joan 
would come out in a sort of way ” during the ensu- 
ing winter — the last the Tweedales would spend in 
Brussels. Lady Tweedale thought it a pity she should 
not go a little into society as she was in the place, 
especially as they could not afford to give her a season 
in town till the following year. Times were bad, as 
Sir Edward said, many of the farmers at home did not 
pay up, and the move to Fletewood in the spring, and 
setting up the establishment afresh, would cost a 
pretty penny. Besides they must get the hall repainted 
this year, and — after all, Joan was young enough. 
Lady Tweedale acquiesced. She would like Joan to 
make her debut with due brilliancy, and it was better 


STRANGE NEWS. 


VM 

to wait a little longer than go in for the thing by 
halves. Meanwhile, it would be good for the child to 
go out a little, as they zvere to be another winter in 
Brussels — it did not matter so much there how they 
did things, and they could continue to economize* all 
the time. 

The Tweedales were supposed to be economizing in 
Brussels, and Lady Tweedale thought they were mak- 
ing very great efforts indeed. They kept one hou:e- 
maid instead of three, for instance, while a page 
replaced the second footman, and there was only one 
maid in the kitchen besides the cook. What more, 
as her ladyship would occasionally observe a little 
plaintively, what more could they do? The absolute 
necessaries of life alone remained to them. 

Erin ran up the stairs with the freedom of long 
custom, and entered the drawing-room unannounced. 
Lady Tweedale was reading the Independance Beige, 
her eyebrows slightly elevated, and the vefy angle 
assumed by her aquiline nose denoting condemnation 
of the principles set forth in that journal. Joan was 
engraving on wood. Her table was established in the 
window as far as possible from the blazing wood fire 
— Lady Tweedale was a chilly person, and Joan was 
the reverse — there was a fine litter all round her of 
tools and papers, and tiny curled shavings. Joan 
herself, with a kind of pinafore over her pretty dress, 
and her hair plaited in one thick tress, which 
occasionally tumbled over her shoulder and was 
impatiently jerked back, looked no more like a 
semi-debutante — Lady Tweedale would never ac- 
knowledge her daughter's participations in the gaye- 


138 


STRANGE NEWS. 


ties of Brussels as more than '^coming out in a kind of 
way ’’ — than her special corner of the drawing-room 
was in keeping with the rest. 

She gave a joyful little scream as Erin entered, but 
her face changed after the first glance. What is the 
matter, Erin?’’ — in a quick, alarmed tone — ''you 
don’t look well, and — I know there is something 
wrong.” 

" Come to the fire, dear,” said Lady Tweedale, 
taking off her pince-nez, and laying down her paper. 
" Come and get warm and tell us all about it. Has 
mademoiselle been unkind again?” 

" Or have you had another letter from your horrid 
old uncle? ” put in Joan. 

" Oh, hush, Joan! ” cried Erin, beginning to sob. 
" He is dead!” 

" Dear me! ” said Lady Tweedale uncrossing her 
pretty little feet, and patting Erin’s shoulder com- 
miseratingly with her small plump hand. " Dead! 
you don’t say so.’’ 

Joan turned very red, and clasped Erin’s hand with 
both hers, and presently began to hug and kiss her — 
which was her way of expressing surprise and con- 
dolence. Mr. Fitzgerald had been a horrid old man, 
but still Erin’s uncle — and now she was alone in the 
world. 

" And what will become of you, my poor, dear 
child?” said Lady Tweedale, in her soft, cooing tones 
and continuing the patting process. 

" I don’t know,” sobbed Erin. I ’m — I ’m to 
have all his money,. I believe. He didn’t mean to 
leave it to me, but he made no will, and so ” 


STRANGE NEWS. 


139 


Well, my very dear girl, I am exceedingly glad 
to hear it,'’ said her ladyship, sitting up and taking 
both feet off the fender in her eagerness. '' It has 
been a great shock to you, of course — but still — 
things might have been worse. There now, don t 
cry any more. It is a mercy that your uncle was 
providentially prevented from carrying out this final 
act of injustice — far better for his own soul, poor 
man,” she added piously. '' We must pray for him 
— I daresay he wasn’t quite accountable. Well, but 
now, dear,” settling down among her cushions again 
— ''now, what about your future? Have you any 
plans — what do you propose to do? ” 

Erin related what Mr. Kennedy had said, an I 
presently Joan jumped up and clapped her hands, 
" I have it — I have it! Papa must be your guardian, 
and you shall live with us. Do you hear, mamma? 
And isn’t it a good idea? The. Lord Chancellor 
must make papa Erin’s guardian, and we’ll take her 
back with us to Eletewood in the spring. Joy, joy! ” 
Joan was spinning about the room, her fair pig-tail 
flying, and her pinafore " ballooning ” as she twirled. 

" Plurray! now I don’t care two pins about leaving 
Brussels! Erin, do get up and cut a caper or two. 
Never mind about your uncle. Think of me\ ” 

Erin got up but did not cut any capers. She 
stood still, with a shy, hesitating smile, and blushed 
very much. Lady Tweedale looked a little startled, 
but indulgent, and, on the whole, pleased. She was 
very fond of Erin, and Joan was the apple of her eye. 

" We must see if it can be arranged,” she said. " It 
will be charming if it can be managed.” 


140 


STRANGE NEWS. 


‘‘ Oh, but it shall be managed — I’ve settled it all! 
cried Joan. '' Til beard the Lord Chancellor in his 
den if necessary. Til go and prepare papa now. 
When does that lawyer-man come? 

“ Some time this afternoon,'’ answered Erin. 

''We'll be ready for him!" said Joan, and 
vanished. 


CHAPTER IL 


ERIN A LANDLORD. 


HAT woman wills, God wills,’' we are told, 



and when the ''woman” in question happens 
to be an only child who has had her own way from the 
momen^t she was capable of formulating it, the result 
is a foregone conclusion. It was perhaps the less 
remarkable in this instance that Joan’s plan happened 
to fall in very nicely with the wishes of all con- 
cerned. Sir Edward and Lady Tweedale were happy 
to coincide with an arrangement which gave their 
daughter so much pleasure, and it was so evidently to 
Erin’s advantage, that the consent of the authorities 
was readily obtained. Einancial arrangements were 
concluded to the satisfaction of all parties, and Erin 
soon found herself an inmate of the Tweedale estab- 
lishment, with the prospect of continuing to belong to 
it for at least three years. 

" Unless you marry meanwhile, you know,” ob- 
served Joan, as she discussed the matter with Erin on 
the night of her arrival. 

" I never shall,” returned her friend positively, " I 
have got other things to do with my life.” 

"Well, I suppose I shall have to marry some time,” 
said Joan, pensively. " Papa will want me to. Never 
mind — don’t let’s talk of my husband, I daresay he 


141 


142 


ERIN A LANDLORD. 


will be a stupid fellow. Most men are. I don’t 
much care for young men — at least, not those I’ve 
seen hitherto. Of course they have chiefly been 
Belgians, and they don’t count.” 

'' Well, I have never known any young men at all,” 
replied Erin, laughing, '' except — oh, yes, I did meet 
one man when I was a little girl, but I only spoke to 
him for a short time. He seemed nice and not at all 
stupid. And he was very kind to me.” 

She stopped, a curious sort of reserve making her 
feel disinclined to pursue the subject even with Joan. 
She had never forgotten her fellow traveller, and used 
occasionally to hope that some time, somehow, she 
would meet him again. The world was such a small 
place, after all. Perhaps they might come across each 
other, when she had been able to carryout some of her 
long-dreamed-of projects. He had said he wondered 
what she would do with her life, and that he would 
like to watch her career from afar — she would like to 
show him that she was capable of great things. 

I have all sorts of plans,” she resumed dreamily. 
'' As soon as I am of age, I shall go to Ireland — and 
find plenty of work there. I mean to devote my life 
to the Irish people. I used to think that when I had 
made just enough money to start with, I would try to 
get on the staff of some newspaper.” 

“Yes, but you cannot do anything of that kind now. 
You are a great heiress, you know — much more of an 
heiress than I am. Why, you are a landlord, Erin^ do 
you know that? How funny it seems. You are 
actually one of those dreadful beings you used to hate 
so much.” 


ERIN A LANDLORD. 


143 


Erin started and Hushed — the matter had not struck 
her in that light before. She had been so full of plans 
for the regeneration of the Glenmor district, 
the amelioration of the condition of the peasantry by 
means of her great wealth, that it had not occurred 
to her that the wealth itself was the result of her 
uncle’s investments in land. Her income consisted 
entirely of rent — was composed, in fact, solely and 
exclusively of the earnings of the sons of the soil. 

'' Things are on a different footing now,” she said, 
after a moment’s pause. '' I must look into them — 
there shall be no rack-rents on my property. I must 
get them reduced all round, and as for the really poor 
people — they shan’t pay anything at all.” 

But Erin soon found how small a voice in her own 
concerns is permitted to a minor of eighteen. Her 
property was being '' administered ” for her by people 
competent to undertake the task — the rents did not 
appear to be unduly high, the peasantry were fairly 
prosperous, the recently-appointed agent was a man 
of integrity and experience; there was to be no ques- 
tion of lowering the rents under existing circum- 
stances, and as for forgiving Tim Hoolahan a couple 
of '' gales ” because his wife Biddy happened to be a 
favorite of the new proprietress, the idea was not to 
be thought of. Erin was treated by those in authority 
with great consideration, but her appeals were entirely 
ignored. She was informed deferentially that she 
might rely on her affairs being managed for the best 
in every possible way; and with much respectful pat- 
ting on the back, it was conveyed to her that she 
would do well not to trouble herself about the matter. 


144 


ERIN A LANDLORD, 


Sir Edward was merely guardian to her person, and 
administrator of the funds allowed for her private 
expenses, and did not interfere in any way with the 
management of her estate. 

After many futile efforts to assert herself, she was 
obliged to submit to the existing condition of things, 
and to content herself with making plans for the time 
when she should be her own mistress; meanwhile 
sending substantial money aid to the most poverty- 
stricken of the Glenmor tenantry. 

Joan, during this .time, was going out '' in a sort of 
way,” and seemed to enjoy it, though at first she had 
rebelled against being obliged to put up her hair, and 
being laced into tight ball dresses. 

One day, about three months after Mr. Fitzgerald’s 
death, a card came for a fancy dress ball at the English 
Minister’s. All Brussels was fighting for invitations. 
The English Colony proper — a small and not particu- 
larly select assembly of Britons, who had most of them 
forsaken their motherland under rather peculiar cir- 
cumstances, was left out; but nearly every Belgian 
family of distinction was included. The Tweedales, 
who were careful to keep themselves aloof from their 
compatriots, had received cards for themselves and 
party,” and of this party Lady Tweedale was deter- 
mined that Erin should form one. It was absurd for 
her to plead her recent bereavement — people did not 
mourn so long in these days, and besides, really, as 
Lady Tweedale delicately insinuated, ^^‘Circumstances 
did alter cases.’ Your affection for your uncle, my 
poor, dear child, cannot have been altogether over- 
powering. Besides, it will be a curious and pretty 
sight — worth going to. You will be quiet enough 


ERIN A LANDLORD. 


115 


when we go to Fletewood next month. Joan will en- 
joy it fifty times as much if you are with her; and — 
altogether,” said Lady Tweedale, with a little touch 
of kindly imperiousness, '' altogether, my dear, I wish 
you to go.” 

'' Do go, Erin darling,” pleaded Joan. You shall 
have a dress all over with shamrocks, if you like, and 
carry a green flag in one hand and a harp in the 
other.” 

Erin at first demurred, but finally consented; and ic 
was decided that she should go as a Connemara 
peasant girl; ” her costume consisting of a short blue 
satin dress and a scarlet velvet cloak. Lady Twee- 
dale was enchanted. 

'' I shall write to Mark to-day,” she said. '' You 
have heard us speak of my nephew, Mark Wim- 
bourne, Erin dear. It is really absolutely necessary to 
have a young man of one’s own on these occasions.” 

The expected arrival of Mr. Wimbourne caused no 
small excitement in the house; even Erin looked for- 
ward to it with some curiosity. He was so clever, she 
heard on all sides, and so amusing, added Joan, and 
such a dear, nice fellow, said Lady Tweedale. 

Sure to get on in the world,” observed Sir 
Edward. 

'' If only he does not try for too many things,” put 
in his wife. 

'' I’m afraid he has too many irons in the fire,” 
observed Joan. '' Let’s see. Barrister to begin with 
— he doesn’t practice, or whatever you call it; but he 
could if he chose. He ought to be successful. I’m 
sure, he is so awfully sharp, and so quick to catch one 
tripping. I shouldn’t like to be cross-examined by 


146 


ERIN A LANDLORD. 


Mark, if I were a witness. Well, literary man next — 
writes for all the big reviews, I believe. They say he 
might make a very fine career out of journalism alone 
if he would stick to it."’ 

'' I must say I should be sorry if he sacrificed other 
interests to that,” said Lady Tweedale, plaintively. 

Why should Mark be nothing better than a 
newspaper man ? ” 

“Then,” pursued Joan, disregarding the interrup 
tion, “ Member of Parliament. He’s our member, 
you know, Erin. That isn’t exactly a paying concern 
but I fancy he turns it to account in the long run, and 
it gratifies his own ambition, besides the satisfaction 
it gives to his relations — and his constituents, of 
course — to be represented by such a clever fellow.” 

“ Yes,” assented Sir Edward; “ the world will hear 
of Mark some day, I fancy. His maiden speech at- 
tracted a good deal of attention two years ago, and 
his famous passage-of-arms with that ruffian made 
the House roar with laughter. Absolutely roar ! ” 
repeated Sir Edward, rubbing his hands and chuck- 
ling. “ Ho! ho! Mark’s a clever fellow — no doubt 
about his getting on.” 

“ What side does he take in politics? ” asked Erin, 
suddenly. 

“ What side? The right side, my dear, you may be 
sure. If you don’t want to be unmercifully chaffed, 
you will do well to keep your views on the subject of 
Home Rule to yourself while Mark is here.” 

“ I am not in. the least afraid of Mr. Mark Wim- 
bourne, thank you,” returned Miss Eitzgerald, loftily; 
but, nevertheless, she was a little disenchanted. 


CHAPTER III. 


MARK WIMBOURNE. 

J T was dusk on a February afternoon when Mr. 

Mark Wimbourne arrived. He appeared a little 
earlier than his relatives had expected, and as it hap- 
pened, no one was at home except Erin. 

The light of the fire alone guided the traveller 
across the room, and his feet fell noiselessly on the pile 
carpet. Erin who was seated by the hearth absorbed 
in meditation, did not hear the door open, nor per- 
ceive his approach until he stood beside her. 

His eyes had not yet become accustomed to the 
semi-darkness, and seeing a girl’s figure dimly out- 
lined in the ruddy glow, he took it to be Joan’s. 

'' Well, my little cousin, how are you ? ” he cried 
cordially, stooping and clasping both her hands. 
'' Grown up and come out, but not much changed, I 
hope. Glad to see me ? ” 

'' I am sure Joan will be very glad to see you when 
she comes in,” said Erin, withdrawing her hands and 
rising. 

She did not ask herself where she had heard that 
voice before, because she recognized it instantaneous- 
ly. Mr. Mark Wimbourne and her well-remembered 
fellow traveller were one and the same. She almost 
felt now as if she had expected this meeting, though, 

147 


148 


MARK WIMBOURNE. 


as a matter of fact nothing had been farther from 
her thoughts. Would he remember her? she 
wondered. 

I beg your pardon/' said Mr. Wimbourne, pleas- 
antly. '' It is so dark here, I took you for my cousin 
— but, of course, I know now who you are. Joan’s 
friend, are you not ? Miss Fitzgerald. You see, I 
have heard of you — and as, of course, you know these 
good people expect me, we may consider ourselves 
introduced.” 

He stooped and drew the logs together, so that 
they shot forth with a blaze which revealed the two to 
each other. His clean-shaven face was, perhaps, a 
little thinner, the lines a little firmer than when she 
had seen it four years before, but otherwise un- 
changed; she would have known it anywhere. She 
noticed, however, with some chagrin, and not a little 
disappointment, that in the steady gaze he bent on 
her, though there was a considerable amount of ap- 
proval, and even admiration, there was absolutely no 
gleam of recognition. 

By-the-bye, what has become of all my relations?” 
he asked presently ; it is very remiss of them not to 
be here to welcome me.” 

'' They did not expect you so soon. Lady Tweedale 
and Joan are shopping, I think, and Sir Edward gen- 
erally goes to the club at this time.” 

'' Oh, does he? ” responded Mr. Wimbourne, with 
the air of profound interest which, as Erin remem- 
bered, he had displayed of old when her concerns were 
under discussion, and which rather annoyed her now 
when applied to such a trivial matter. She subse- 


MARK WIM BOURNE. 


149 


quently discovered that this attitude of his was 
invariable on receiving any piece of information 
whatever. 

Well/' he pursued after a short pause, '' I hope it 
won't bore you very much to entertain me till some 
one comes in. I should like some tea — and don't you 
think we might have lights ? I hate sitting in the 
dark." 

Taking permission for granted, he rang the bell 
and gave his orders accordingly; and then, drawing 
his aunt's favorite chair close to the hearth, took pos- 
session of it, and calmly awaited events. 

He evidently considered it part of Erin's duty as 
entertainer to make conversation for him. She had 
never felt so shy in her life. What was she to say to 
him? Other girls would know, but she was not like 
other girls — she began to wish now that she had not 
been so resolute in shunning society — no doubt seclu- 
sion did make people stupid, and she did not want 
Mark Wimbourne to think her stupid. 

He sat meanwhile in an attitude of tranquil expec- 
tancy, with his finger-tips lightly pressed together 
and his eyes fixed on the fire. 

“ I hope you had a good passage," said Erin at 
haphazard. 

'' Thanks, yes — very fair. It was too short to 
trouble me much in any case.’' 

Then you did not come by the Baron Osyf ’' — 
surely this hint would remind him of his little fellow 
traveller of old. 

The Baron Osy?^^ — blankly — ^^Oh, the Antwerp 
way — no " — with a little laugh, “ Dover and Calais is 


150 


MARK WIM BOURNE. 


quite good enough for me. One has about eighteen 
hours of it the other way, hasn’t one ? ” 

Have you never tried it ? ” said Erin, and her 
voice trembled a little. 

Oh, yes, once, I believe — years ago, when I was 
very young and had desperate ideas about economy. 
Are they going to bring that tea, do you think, or 
is it permissible to ring again ? I know the ways of 
my aunt’s servants of old — they don’t like to be hur- 
ried, and she would think it shocking to disturb them. 
But as she isn’t here, I think we might venture to 
remind them that one’s wants have not yet been at- 
tended to.” 

He rang as he spoke, and William, the English 
footman, appeared with the coal-box — his way of pro- 
testing against the visitor’s uncalled-for impatience. 

Neither Wimbourne nor Erin uttered a word of 
explanation, and William, having as nearly as possi- 
ble extinguished the comfortably glowing logs under 
a rattling black avalanche, withdrew, leaving the oc- 
cupants of the room in almost total darkness. 

'' We haven’t improved matters,” observed Mark, 
as the door closed. I should have expected more 
moral courage from you. Why didn’t you say what 
we rang for ? ” 

“ Why didn’t you f cried Erin. You are Lady 
Twxedale’s nephew, and have the best right.” 

'' I’m only a visitor, though. Now, you are a kind 
of daughter of the house. By-the-bye, how does my 
uncle come to be your guardian? ” 

'' I thought you said you knew all about me.” 

Only the bare facts of your being his ward. I 


MARK WIM BOURNE. 


151 


want to hear the details/' — here there was a sound 
as of a chair being dragged across the floor. 

'' Well, there isn't much to tell. I — I — happen to 
have a good deal of money, and no relations, and 
somebody had to take care of me. And Joan was my 
greatest friend, and so " 

''And so she managed it, I suppose. How did you 
and Joan come across each other? " 

Erin told him, speaking a little curtly in the hope of 
putting an end to the discussion; but Mr. Wimbourne 
was interested, or, at least, chose to appear interested, 
and continued to question her so adroitly that he 
learned rather more of her history than she really 
meant to tell him. Her past enthusiasms and future 
projects she was careful to keep to herself; but he 
heard something of her former life and curious edu- 
cation, and looked at her with renewed attention 
when lights were at last brought. But as soon as the 
tea-table was set forth, he turned his thoughts to 
other matters. 

" Most interesting," he observed; " and now may I 
have sorne tea." 

Erin poured it out, feeling intensely exasperated 
no less at the casual way in which he dropped the 
subject of her affairs, than at her own folly in having 
allowed him to discuss them. 

The entrance of the Tweedales put an end to a 
tete-a-tete, which she was beginning to find embarrass- 
ing, and she took the first opportunity of escaping to 
her own room. 

That episode of the past which had left so deep 
an impression on her mind, how completely he had 


MARK WIM BOURNE. 


152 

forgotten ill Well, she would never pretend that she 
remembered. How glad she was now that she had 
obeyed the instinct which forbade her to dilate on it 
even to Joan. It was humiliating, too — should she 
ever forget his air of serene unconsciousness in allud- 
ing to his only journey from London to Antwerp. 
A*nd she had been on the point of revealing her iden- 
tity — thank heaven she had refrained! So, Mr. Mark 
Wimbourne, Joan’s cousin, the rising barrister, the 
litterateur, the member of Parliament, and clever suc- 
cessful fellow all round, he was the man of whom Erin 
had secretly made a little bit of a hero all these years. 
She had thought him a personage of some kind, and 
if he was not one yet, he seemed likely to become one. 
But the kindly, tender-hearted, generous youth, who 
had been so easily moved to compassion for the woes 
of a strange little girl, who had promised almost affec- 
tionately to take an interest in her future — where was 
he? There was no trace of him in Mark Wimbourne. 

''And yet he must have a good heart under that 
artificial manner of his,” she reflected, when her 
irritation calmed itself in some degree; "but it is a 
pity he is not sincere.’"' 

They were half-way through the soup when Sir 
Edward appeared. He was always late for meals, and 
unless in the case of a large dinner-party, nobody ever 
dreamed of waiting for him. He leisurely sauntered 
across the room now, devoutly saying grace aloud as 
he walked, according to his custom, oblivious of the 
fact that that religious ceremony had already been 
gone through by those assembled. 

"Amen,” said Sir Edward, cheerfully, pausing 


MARK WIMBOURNE. 


153 


opposite Mark’s chair. Well, how is our future 
prime minister? ’’ 

Mark looked up, smiled, nodded, disposed of the 
spoonful of soup he had been in the act of conveying 
to his lips, and then half rose, extending his hand. 

'' How are you. Uncle Edward? Pretty fit? 
That’s right.” 

'' How does the Government get on without ye, 
eh? ” pursued Sir Edward, stumping round to his 
seat. Important man like you — I told her ladyship 
she oughtn’t to interfere with the interests of the 
nation like that — taking you out of the country just 
when it’s most in need of you p’raps.” 

'' Oh, I think I can be spared for the time,” 
responded his nephew, imperturbably. '' I’ve paired 
for to-morrow night, and there’s nothing else of any 
importance going on just now.” 

'' Come, thafs right,” said the old baronet in the 
same elaborately bantering tone. '' Otherwise, you 
know, we should have heavy consciences in dragging 
you away. It might lead to a national calamity, 
mightn’t it? — what’s this? Messy-looking stuff, 
whatever it is.” 

'' Mutton cutlets ar lar reform, Sir Edward,” 
returned the butler, solemnly. 

'' Beastly messy-looking stuff! I wish you 
wouldn’t have all those sauces, Adela. Hate the 
sight of ’em. No, thank ye. I’ll wait for the next. 
Take that round to Mr. Wimbourne. There’s Reform 
for you, Mark, my boy — let’s see how you’ll fancy 
it. Well, what are they doing in the House just 
now? ” 


154 


MARK WlMBOURNB, 


'' Much the same as they've been doing all the 
Session — dawdling on and trying to throw a sop to 
Cerberus every now and then. You see the papers, 
don't you? " 

''Yes, of course I see the papers — but I like 
when I have the opportunity to get my news from 
the fountain-head. Home Rule is done for, anyhow." 

" In its present form — and for a time, yes; but 
it will crop up again before long. The general 
election is coming on, you know." 

"And what will happen then?" put in Erin, 
suddenly, from the other side of the table. 

" W ell, if the Liberals get in, I suppose they would 
carry Home Rule somehow. But there is not much 
chance of it — we shall beat them out of the field." 

"And how will your party deal with the Irish 
question?" pursued Erin, aggressively, for his con- 
fident tone enraged her. 

" I know how I should like to deal with it," said 
Mark, laughing. " I should serve out Maxim guns 
gratis to both sides of the National party, and let 
the Parnellites and Anti-Parnellites mow each other 
down at their leisure. In course of time the Unionists 
would have it all to themselves, and we should have 
a nice, loyal, peaceable little Ireland." 

" Ha, ha, ha! " chuckled Sir Edward. " Let 'em 
fight it out between 'em like the Kilkenny cats, eh? 
A very bright idea, Mark; why don't you propose it 
to the House?" 

Erin turned quite pale with anger and disgust. 
Good heavens, were these civilized people! She 
looked from Sir Edward's genial, white-whiskered 


MARK WIM BOURNE, 


15g 


face to Mr. Wimbourne's pale and refined one. The 
latter was peeling an apple, twirling the fruit in his 
long, slim fingers, and looking down at it with a com- 
posed smile. Of course he had spoken in joke, but 
some jokes were too atrocious to be perpetrated. 
Tlie man must have a horrible mind who could even 
suggest such a thing. Erin’s vivid imagination con- 
jured up the scene of carnage — seeing whole rows — 
not of mere impersonal “ Irishmen,” but of the indi- 
vidual Pats, and Jims, and Micks of her acquaintance 
— slaughtered, '' mown down ” by the diabolical 
weapons they could not see. 

''The idea is not so original as you think,” she cried, 
with angry sarcasm. " It is very, very old — in fact, 
it has always been the English idea of governing 
Ireland — to exterminate the bulk of the people, that 
the wretched slavish minority, who are not Irish at 
all, may have everything their own way.” 

Sir Edward stopped laughing — he was not par- 
ticularly pleased at the girl’s positive tone — and 
Lady Tweedale began to gather up her effects pre- 
paratory to leaving the room. It was quite absurd of 
a child like Erin to begin an argument with Mark — 
she would make a little goose of herself, and be sorry 
for it after. Joan tried to combine a warning glance 
at her cousin with a pleading one at Erin, and Mr. 
Wimbourne looked up surprised, but amused. 

" You have not quite entered into the spirit of the 
notion,” he cried, addressing Erin, leisurely. "I don’t 
at all propose that we English should exterminate 
the Irish — but merely that we should be generous 
enough to enable them to exterminate each other. 


156 


MARK WIM BOURNE. 


That is where the brilliancy of the idea comes in — it 
would be cheap, simple, and efficient.” 

'' Come along,” cried Joan, jumping up and putting 
her arm through Erin’s, “ I know you and Mark will 
fight if you don’t, and mamma has been fidgeting 
about for ages.” 

Lady Tweedale, however, reseated herself as the 
girls left the room, and addressed herself gently to 
her nephew. 

'' You must have patience with our little friend, 
Mark. Pray don’t discuss politics with her — she is 
a rabid little Home Ruler, and it makes her so cross.” 

'' I think she is most entertaining,” cried Mark; 

I like to* see her in a rage. But how comes she to 
be so keen a Nationalist? I thought you said she had 
large property in Ireland? ” 

'' That’s just the joke,” cried Sir Edward. '' She is 
full of nonsensical notions about Ireland for the Irish, 
and the land of the people — and she’s a landlord her- 
self. Ha, ha, ha! Every penny she has in the world 
comes from land. I should like to know where she’d 
be if landlordism was abolished.” 

Well,. Edward dear, you must do her the justice 
to say that she would be quite willing to sacrifice 
herself for her principles — only, luckily, she has no 
power over herself at present, and we must hope that 
by the time she comes of age she will have more sense. 
You see, Mark, she has had such a curious bringing- 
up. Her father was a rebel, you know, actually trans- 
ported for his conduct in the year ’48, and he married 
an Irish peasant girl, and Erin was brought up to a 
great extent in a cabin — so one can’t quite exnect 


MARK WIMBOURNE. 


157 


her to be like other people. Her very name prepares 
you for something a little extraordinary. Erin, you 
know. Her father insisted on calling her Erin. But 
she is a dear, sweet child, and we are all devoted to 
her, aren’t we, Edward? ” 

''Yes,” returned her lord. "She’s a nice little 
thing, and very fond of Joan. We’ll soon laugh the 
nonsense out of her — and she’ll see for herself that 
it doesn’t pay.” 

" What a funny history,” mused Wimbourne, rising 
and opening the door for his aunt. " The anti-climax 
is quite delicious.” 

Upstairs, Joan observed diffidently to her friend 
that she supposed she must not ask what she thought 
of Mark. 

" Yes, you can ask,” responded Erin, briefly. " I 
don’t in the least object to telling you — I hate him! ” 


CHAPTER IV. 


« BABYLON. 

W HEN Mr. Wimbouriie presently accompanied 
his uncle to the drawing-room, he chose to 
exhibit himself in quite a different aspect. It pleased 
him to exert himself for the entertainment of the 
women-folk, and he certainly succeeded; no one could 
have been more amusing, brilliant, and fnteresting. 
Even Erin, though she had been wounded on her 
most vulnerable point but half-an-hour before, gradu- 
ally succumbed to his charm; and forgetting her in- 
dignation, found herself chatting pleasantly with her 
enemy. At one moment, she thought him on the 
point of recognizing her; she had been defending a 
certain favorite theory of hers, and had grown eager 
and enthusiastic over the discussion. Mark looked at 
her intently. 

‘‘ You remind me of some one — I canh think who 
it can be. Your voice — I could almost swear I had 
heard it before.’’ 

‘'An accidental likeness,” said his aunt. “ The curi- 
ous thing about them is, that so often more than one 
point corresponds. You are struck with a resem- 
blance between two people who have never seen each 
other, and you find presently that they have m.any 
other things in common — they even think alike on 
various points.” 


BABYLON. 


159 


‘'All the same, I am sure my Erin has no double! ” 
cried Joan. “ She is unique.” 

Erin, growing suddenly shy, was silent after this; 
and the work of identification proceeded no further 
that evening. 

On the next night, however, when she came down- 
stairs, dressed for the ball, Mark, who in picturesque 
eighteenth century attire was waiting in the drawing- 
room, after a glance at the pretty face under the 
scarlet hood, gave a little start. 

“ I know you now. Rose — Rosie — what is it? 
Antigone, my little fellow traveller.” 

“ You have been a long time in finding me out,” 
said Erin, blushing and smiling with unaccountable 
pleasure. 

“ I am very, very glad to meet you again,” said 
Mark, with apparently unfeigned earnestness. “ I 
have often thought of you, and wondered what had 
become of you. No, you needn't look so incredulous. 
It is quite true. After all, how could I possibly be 
expected to identify my — rather miserable-looking 
little friend, with a prosperous young person like you 
— to find the forlorn waif comfortably established in 
the bosom of my own family? ” 

Erin had now seated herself, and Mark proceeded 
to examine her leisurely from the top of her knowing 
little hood, to the steel buckles on her pretty shoes; 
her skirt was, as has been said, of blue satin, her 
stockings of bluish-gray silk. 

“Where is your basket?” he asked presently. 

You are Red Riding-hood, aren't you.” 

“ No,” returned Erin, reddening, “I am — supposed 
to be a Connemara peasant girl,” 


160 


BABYLON. 


'' Oh/’ with another comprehensive, but unsmiling 
glance. I see — it’s very pretty.” 

It’s not very consistent, I’m afraid,” went on the 
girl, a little defiantly. '' Lady Tweedale chose it — 
and, between her and her French dressmaker, it has 
turned out very unlike my original design. But I 
was determined to represent something Irish.” 

She spoke quickly, and rather nervously, expecting 
some sarcastic rejoinder. But it did not suit Mr. 
Wimbourne to be sarcastic just then; his face was 
perfectly serious, and wore, moreover, a kindly and 
gentle expression, which reminded Erin of her formei 
hero. He, on his part, was evidently also trying to 
trace the red-cloaked traveller of that bygone day in 
the radiant vision of to-night. 

‘'And how about your studies?” he asked presently, 
with the quiet earnestness which, in spite of herself, 
Erin found flattering. “ You were very keen about 
your studies, I remember — have you learned as much 
as you wanted to? ” 

“ Who ever does? ” she cried. “ No — not half — 
and I never shall. I want to know, and to know, and 
to know! Oh, dear, the more one tries, the more 
ignorant one feels! It is like setting one’s lips to the 
brink of an ocean — the taste of it only makes one 
thirst the more.” 

Wimbourne looked at her with interest and amuse- 
ment, as her eager words came tumbling out one on 
top of the other, and her little hands gesticulated, and 
her eyes danced and flashed. Then, in his calm and 
rather sleepy fashion, he proceeded to inquire into the 
course of the studies she was actually pursuing, and 


BABYLON. 


IGl 


to advise her in matter-of-fact tones, which made her 
feel a little ashamed of her recent enthusiasm. Yet, 
nevertheless, she was almost sorry when the tete-a-tete 
was put an end to by the entrance of Lady Tweedale, 
whose hybrid costume was a source of equal satisfac- 
tion to herself, and amusement to her husband. Then 
Joan came in smart and trim, the three-cornered hat 
and hunting costume of green velvet and white satin 
very becoming, if not altogether realistic. Lastly, Sir 
Edward entered, in his smoking suit, and walked 
round, making sarcastic remarks on all present, and 
loudly rejoicing that he had not been persuaded to go 
in for any such tomfoolery. 

Look at her ladyship’s white wig — it does not 
improve your looks, my dear, I can tell ye — makes 
your head look about twice too big. And what’s that 
black thing on your face, Adele — cut yourself? ” 

'' It’s a patch, you goose, and you know it is, quite 
well. Go away to your pipe if you haven’t anything 
more pleasant to say.’" 

Thus Lady Tweedale, accentuating the request v/ith 
a little shake of her fan. 

'' Well, Mark, and what are you supposed to repre- 
sent? ’Pon my word, he’s got a white wig, and a 
brace of beauty-spots, too! Why, Mark, I didn’t 
think you’d make such a figure of fun of yourself. 
Look at his fine flowered zveskit,'’ cried Sir Edward, 
in his broadest North-country accent. 

'' Yes, isn’t it smart? The white wig and patches 
are de rigueiir, my dear uncle; and if you want to 
know, I chose this get-up because I thought it would 
make me rather less of a figure of fun than most 


162 


BABYLON. 


others do. One always does look more or less of a 
fool in fancy dress.'’ 

''Yon do anyhow," assented Sir Edward, with a 
candor which would have disconcerted any one less 
thoroughly at ease than Mark. ''As for my poor little 
Joan " 

" Now, you mustn’t say anything rude about your 
poor little Joan,’’ interrupted that young person. 
" The fact is, you are just beside yourself with envy— 
isn’t he, mamma? You haven’t got a white wig, you 
dear, old, bald thing, and you’re secretly pining for 
one, and for a flowered waistcoat like MarkY — you 
think your figure would display it to greater advan- 
tage than his, and so it would. You were lazy, and 
unsociable, and disagreeable, and said nothing would 
induce you to go to this ball — and now you repent it. 
Never mind, dear — smoke your pipe and go to bed, 
and mamma will tell you all about it when she comes 
home in the morning.’’ 

" I beg she’ll do nothing of the kind,’’ responded 
Sir Edward. "Well, there’s the carriage — good-night, 
all of you. Good-night, Joaney, you little saucy minx. 
Ha! ha! I think I and my pipe will have the best of 
it, after all.’’ 

At the ball Erin’s beauty attracted a good deal of 
attention, and she had much siicces, as many of Lady 
Tweedale’s friends hastened to assure her. Mark was 
guilty of several sarcastic comments on debutantes, 
during the course of the evening, but he compli- 
mented her towards its close. 

" Do you know you have had quite a triumph? I 
congratulate you. I should withdraw my offensive 
remarks, only that I feel you substailtiate them. You 


BABYLON, 


163 


are the exception which proves the rule. As a rule 
it is a nuisance to dance with a debutante.’' 

Please don’t talk like that,” cried Erin. ‘‘ I know 
it is all pretence. I know by the way you have helped 
me to-night. Besides, long ago, when we first met, 
if you had been as selfish as you make believe to be, 
you would not have gone out of your way to be 
kind to me.” 

I didn’t go out of my way,” returned Mark, with 
provoking indifference. happened to have nothing 
to do, and it was very dull; and you were a pretty 
little girl, and cried daintily. If you had snivelled 
and given yourself a red nose, I should have left you 
alone. No, I am afraid I am not more unselfish than 
the rest of my kind. If you have had any illusions 
concerning me,” he added, looking at her oddly, 
'' pray dismiss them from your mind. I am, at least, 
nothing of a Pharisee, for I own I am very much as 
other men, except that, perhaps, I have rather more 
ambition than most of them. I mean to get on in the 
world, somehow — some time — coute que coute^ 
Erin’s enjoyment was checked; she felt disenchanted 
with Mark, and yet oddly humiliated by him. How 
dared he, with that suave impertinence of his, beg her 
'to dismiss her too favorable opinion of him? What 
grounds had she given him for supposing she con- 
cerned herself in the least about him? The thought 
of his look, of his smile, of his tone, as he said, If 
you have had any illusions concerning me,” maddened 
her.^. She was glad when the evening was over, for it 
was more than she could do to feign unconcern in 
his company, and she would not show pique. 


CHAPTER V. 


A BATTLE. 

“M Y dear Erin, you look a perfect wreck! ” 

Lady Tweedale put on her pince-nez and 
inspected the girl with a displeased and astonished 
air as she approached the breakfast table. ‘‘Joan, 
how long did you stay in that child's room last 
night? " 

“ I hadn't a chance of staying long," cried Joan, in 
an aggrieved tone. “ She turned me out just when 
I was beginning to feel lively " 

“ Well, really, I do think, when one is very tired 
and a person dances about one's room at three o'clock 
in the morning, one may be excused if one shows a 
little irritation," retorted Erin. If you had seen her, 
Lady Tweedale, waltzing round and round, you 
would have understood my being cross — I wanted 
to go to bed." 

“ Doesn't she talk like an old woman? " cried Joan. 
'' Her first ball, too! After all, as I say, it is good 
to be young — why not caper while you can? In 
spite of your wisdom, Erin, I am much less tired than 
you this morning. Didn't you sleep? I know, the 
music got into your head, didn't it? It's an awful 
nuisance when it does. But it won't have the same 
effect on you after a time." 


164 


A BATTLE. 


165 


Erin shook her head, but made no reply. 

I really must go and see what Sir Edward is 
doing,’’ said her ladyship, suddenly rising. He is 
getting shockingly lazy in the mornings. I don’t see 
why he shouldn’t be in time for breakfast because / 
have been to a ball. Look after Mark when he 
comes down, Joan, and do try and make that child 
eat something.” 

‘"Joan,” said Erin, solemnly, as soon as they were 
alone. '' I don’t intend ever to go to a ball again as 
long as I live. I made that resolution last night while 
I was lying awake. I feel miserable — disgusted with 
myself. I have lowered myself — I — oh, I hate myself.” 

Why? ” asked Mark, who had entered unnoticed 
by the two girls, and who now drew near, fresh and 
trim, and smiling. Good-morning, Joan — (coffee, 
please — not much milk, thanks!) — good-morning,” 
with a little laughing nod across the table at Erin, 
why do you hate yourself to-day? ” 

You have interrupted a private conversation,” 
said Joan. If you were well-bred, you would not 
pretend to have overheard anything.” 

'' Joan, you are wrong. Candor is, on the con- 
trary, a sign of good breeding. You have the most 
antiquated notions in this family! The more plainly 
one speaks nowadays, the better form it is. But I 
really am curious to know why Miss Eitzgerald hates 
herself this morning.” 

Erin had now recovered herself in some degree, 
and returned lightly, '' I am in a misanthropic mood, 
that’s all — and hate everything and everyone — myself 
included.” 


A BATTLE, 


1G() 

'' Do you hate me? ” said Joan, putting down the 
coffee-pot, and assuming a funny little injured air. 

“ Not this morning — I hated you last night, when 
you danced round my room.'’ 

'' Do you hate me? asked Mark. 

“ Yes, when you ask questions.’’ 

Mark looked up with an air of approval. But at 
this moment Sir Edward came down, very cross and 
solemn, and only half awake. It was an understood 
thing that no one was to speak to him till he had 
had at least one cup of tea and an egg. Till then, 
he was unapproachable. He frowned at them all 
round as he entered, examined his letters with a 
funereal expression, announced briefly that her lady- 
ship was a good hand at running up bills, that 
Morris, his bailiff, became more of an idiot every day, 
and that he didn’t suppose Fletewood would be habit- 
able by the time they returned. Then he inspected 
Wimbourne’s plate, and wanted to know why he was 
eating butter and jam together; and finally, looking 
sternly at Erin, remarked that if she brought back 
such a white face as that from her balls and thingu- 
majigs, she would do better to stay at home with 
him. 

'' I think I shall,” she returned, laughing. They 
are not in my line. Sir Edward. You and I will take 
care of each other in future.” 

Sir Edward visibl}' unbent, but made no rejoinder; 
and when Joan approached with a piece of toast 
which she had heated up for him at the fire, though 
he scowled at her fiercely as he detached it from the 
fork, he finally drew down her face and kissed it. 


A BATTLE. 


167 


Now/’ cried Joan, '' yon are evidently ready for 
your second cup. Erin, go upstairs to the drawing- 
room and rest. Take your bundle of treason with 
you” — tucking a number of newspapers under her 

friend’s arm — ''and soothe yourself with Mr. ^s 

latest figures of speech. Now, mind; choose a 
comfortable chair, and toast yourself well by the fire. 
You look frozen this morning. I shall come up and 
look after you as soon as papa has finished his 
breakfast.” 

" You can go now, if you like. I donT want you, 
Fm sure,” growled papa, evincing symptoms of 
relapse, which Joan cheerfully ignored. 

" I will escort Miss Fitzgerald upstairs, and see that 
she is comfortably established,” volunteered Mark. 
" You really do look ill this morning,” he added, with 
an air of concern, as he followed her out of the 
room. 

" I wish every one would not consider it necessary 
to make remarks about my appearance,” said Erin, 
sharply. "And I assure you I am quite capable of 
walking upstairs by myself.” 

She paused half-way up the first flight, and looked 
impatiently round. Mark stopped two steps lowo:* 
down. 

" Say another word and I will carry your news- 
papers! I am pledged to Joan to look after your 
comfort.” 

"You are very tiresome! ” cried Erin, continuing 
the ascent, however, with a shrug of her shoulders. 

Mark stalked after her, carefully closed the door, 
shook up the cushions in the most comfortable arm- 


168 


A BATTLE, 


chair, pushed it close to the hearth, placed a footstool 
in front of it, and invited Erin, with a wave of the 
hand, to take possession. 

Then he stood on the hearthrug opposite to her, 
leaning his back against the chimney-piece, and sur- 
veying her with a pleased smile. 

I flatter myself Joan could not have done it 
better,’’ he remarked. Now, you are longing for me 
to go away, I know; and so I will, directly, but I 
want to say one word to you first.” 

He leaned forward a little, and touched the papers 
in her lap; then, resuming his former position, shook 
his head slightly. 

It won’t do,” he said; ''you will find it won’t do.” 
"What won’t do?” cried Erin, on the alert at once. 
" I know exactly the frame of mind you are in this 
morning,” he pursued, contemplating her curiously. 
" Believe me, your remorse is quite uncalled-for. It 
is useless to struggle against your fate. Not though 
you forswear for ever all innocent amusements, and 
steep yourself to the very lips in the amenities of 

your favorite orators ! ” 

Erin looked up, flushing and frowning. But he 
went on, without noticing her displeasure, " I know 
all about it, you see. You are about to devote the 
morning to Eenian literature, in the hope of atoning 
to yourself for the frivolity of last night. You are 

quite ashamed of having enjoyed yourself ” 

" I didn’t enjoy myself,” interrupted Erin, scorn- 
fully. " It is true, at first, with the music and the 
novelty and the excitement I was carried away — but 
afterwards I hated it; and now, as I said to Joan, I 


A BATTLE, 


1C9 


hate myself. I am not like other girls — I have seen 
too much of the serious side of life, I have too much 
to think of, too much to do, to care for things of the 

kind. Last night I was foolish 

Poor little girl! ” said Mark, very kindly. You 
think you have a mission in life, don’t you? You 
want to do something very heroic — very tragic — you 
want, perhaps, to play at being a patriot, as last night 
you played at being a peasant. Well, take my word 
for it, there will be as much reality about the one 
performance as there was about the other. Your 
peasant garb was perforce of satin and velvet, remem- 
ber, — your patriotism will masquerade in much the 
same style. Situated as you are,’’ he continued, dis- 
regarding her attempt to interrupt him, everything 
unites to trammel you. Youth, wealth, luxurious 
surroundings, the love of your friends, all will hem 
you in. This will be your tragedy. You will struggle 
and long to do something wonderful and heroic — and 
you will be obliged to content yourself with a happy 
girl’s life. I don’t say that you will not be able to 
gratify some of your wishes,” he added, smiling. ‘'You 
will probably spend a great deal of money, and do 
many foolish things; but, I think — I hope — you will 
be pteserved from taking any steps seriously detri- 
mental to yourself.” 

" That will do,” said Erin. “ I have heard quite 
enough, thanks. You can keep your opinion, and I 
will keep mine. Time will show whether I am in 
earnest or not. Meanwhile, I should be obliged if 
you would choose some other subject on which to 
exercise your prophetic powers.” 


170 


A BATTLE. 


She unfolded one of her newspapers with a resolute 
air, holding it so that Mark could not see her face; 
the expression of his changed slightly, but, after a 
moment, he too provided himself with a paper from 
the heap on her knee, and sank into the opposite 
armchair. 

A few minutes later Joan, entering, found them 
immersed in their respective journals, and paused, 
laughing. 

'' Has Erin been trying to convert you, Mark? 

'' I am endeavoring to discover the secret of the 
fascination which Miss Fitzgerald evidently finds in 
this particular class of literature,’’ he replied, laying 
down the sheet with a slight yawn, and I have 
decided that it must be because of the choice and 
riginal metaphors employed by her favorite speak- 
\ Here I see a speech at some league meeting in 
wii. di somebody remarks that you could not throw 
away a dead cat without hitting a bad landlord. It 
is a little exaggerated, perhaps, but still distinctly 
vigorous.” 

“ Vulgar, I call it,” obser^^ed Joan, wrinkling up 
her little nose disdainfully. 

'' I daresay it is true, though,” cried Erin, hotly. 
'' Many facts in Ireland are grim and unpleasant and 
vulgar enough, heaven knows. Starvation, and rags, 

and misery, and cruel oppression ” 

Observe,” said Mark to Joan, '' what an apt pupil 
your friend is. She is not one of those who read 
without retaining.” 

But seriously, Erin dear,” said Joan, crossing to 
the hearthrug and sitting down at her friend’s feat. 


A BATTLE. 


171 


you carCt like reading about dead cats and 
things 

'‘What are you talking about?"’ asked Lady 
Tweedale, entering in her turn, and tapping her 
nephew on the shoulder as a hint to him to surrender 
her favorite chair. "Where’s my knitting, Joan? 
Mark, what are you doing up here at this time of 
morning? Your uncle is looking for you — and that 
is my chair.” 

" I beg your pardon,” said Mark, rising and leaning 
against the chimney-piece. " We are trying to 
explain to ourselves the reason of Miss Erin’s delight 
in her special budget of newspapers. Joan and I 
think the style a little startling, but Miss Fitzgerald 
seems to approve of it.” 

" Poor, dear, odd child,” remarked Lady Tweedale, 
placidly. " I have looked over her papers once or 
twice, and thought their sentiments quite shocking. 
She is too clever, really, to like that sort of thing — 
but I fancy she tries to.” 

" You are quite wrong. There is no pretence about 
me,” retorted Erin. " These vulgar newspapers give 
one certain facts — very shocking, no doubt ” 

"And exaggerated,” said Lady Tweedale, 

plaintively. "And she believes them all, Mark.” 

" Which,” continued the girl, without heeding the 
interruption, " it is well for one to know. It would be 
well,” she went on with gathering ire, as she observed 
that Wimbourne was critically examining the bric-a- 
brac on the chimney-piece, " it would be well if other 
people studied these facts too — but most of those 
who aspire to rule us are as ignorant of the atrocities 


172 


A BATTLE. 


which are perpetrated in my unfortunate country day 
by day, in this enlightened and civilized nineteenth 
century, as they are of our dreary history in the past/ 
Dreary history! ’’ cried Joan. I am glad at last 
to hear you admit that Irish history is dreary! You 
usually pretend to like studying those appalling little 
green books in your room. She has got a row of 
books, Mark — dreadful little books, all bound alike 
in grass-green, with harps on them. Why, I wonder, 
is it considered invariably necessary to bind all books 
connected with Irish affairs in that particularly ugly 
shade of green? Now we, you know, Erin dear, are 
quite as patriotic in our own way, and yet we don't 
have all our books bound in red with lions ramping 
over them.’’ 

Mark took up another little cup and inspected 
the mark on the bottom; then he looked at a 
photograph 

'' Is this Poppy’s last? ” he said. '' How good! ” 

'‘You can’t compare the two countries,” cried Erin. 
" We in Ireland make efforts — what seem to out- 
siders ridiculous efforts — to assert our nationality 
in every way we can. We try to reanimate the 
smouldering spark of patriotism in breasts where it 
has been stiffed by ” 

" Centuries of wrong,” interposed Mark, blandly. 
" That is the phrase, I think ” 

Erin, who had been more and more irritated by 
what she took to be the contempt of his attitude, 
now fairly lost her temper. 

" The cant phrase you would say, I suppose,” she 
cried with hashing eyes. " Yes, I know it is one that 


A BATTLE. 


173 


is commonly used among us, but it is none the less 
true. You and your kind are so used to our miseries 
that they have even ceased to bore you. You hear 
of them with a sneer, and dismiss them with a gibe - • 
rather glad than otherwise to have the chance of 
showing off your own wit. But do you think that 
makes them less real? On the contrary, when you 
take the trouble to inquire into it, you generally find 
a cant phrase a good one.’^ 

'' I think it is going to snow,’' observed Lady 
Tweedale, in gentle, purring tones. 

'' The wrongs of Ireland are accumulated wrongs,” 
went on the girl, still at white heat. '' The injuries 
under which the Irish peasant of to-day is still 
groaning are heavier because he remembers the 

injuries of his ancestors ” 

'' Now, now, now,” interposed Joan, springing up 
and laughing — ''don’t let’s squabble any more! 
My darling, if we were all to begin to groan over the 
injuries of our ancestors, 'the world would be a very 
dreary place. I am sure we English Catholics would 
have plenty to groan about. Good gracious! Didn’t 
they hang us and behead us by scores in Elizabeth’s 
time, and flatten us to death between two boards with 
stones under our backs? Why, even a few years ago 
— comparatively a few years ago — a Catholic couldn’t 
have a horse worth more than five pounds! — ” cried 
Joan, as though this were the culminating horror — 
" and yet we never think of brooding and letting our- 
selves be embittered by these things! ” 

" My dear Joan,” cried Erin, very much nettled, 
"your argument does not in the least apply. You 


174 


A BATTLE. 


English can afford to let bygones be bygones, 
because you are now so well off. We in Ireland,’’ 
she continued, with increasing warmth, are still 
oppressed by an alien government, still trampled 
upon ” 

Mark Wimbourne turned round abruptly. ‘ I can- 
not consent to regard myself nor to allow myself to 
be regarded in that bony light ’ — quotation, in case 
you may not know it. Miss Fitzgerald, what have 
I done that I should be considered a trampler? ” 

Lady Tweedale smiled over her knitting, and Joan 
laughed. Erin looked up, more angry than ever. 

'' I assure you,” continued Mark, mildly, I don’t 
want to trample on anybody. I am not by nature 
a trampler. I feel that the accusation is intended for 
me — indeed, you have been hurling so many denun- 
ciations at me that I am quite overcome. But even 
a worm will turn. I will not submit tamel}^ to your 
last impeachment.” 

'' I’m not going to talk any more,” said Erin, 
throwing herself back on her cushions. It’s no use. 
You will not argue with me fairly — you sneer at 
every word I say.” 

She paused, her lip quivering with wrath and 
mortification. Mark looked at her keenly, but said 
nothing. 


CHAPTER VI. 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 

J ^ ATER in the afternoon, Mark chanced to go to 
the drawing-room in search of a book of refer- 
ence, which he had left there the day before. He 
expected to find the room empty, Lady Tweedale 
and Joan being out driving, and Sir Edward having 
betaken himself to his club. Erin had been advised 
to lie down in her room, and had apparently 
acquiesced; therefore, he was surprised to discover 
her in the embrasure of a window. She was lying 
back in an armchair fast asleep; and Mark, after an 
admiring glance at the beautiful contour of the slight, 
unconscious figure, would have withdrawn with all 
silence and discretion, had not one little circumstance 
attracted his attention. It was a very insignificant 
circumstance, and yet, oddly enough, identical with 
the one which had years before first brought about 
his introduction to Erin; neither more nor less than 
the appearance on the ground beside her of a small, 
limp pocket-handkerchief. It looked very limp — 
could it be that it was damp with tears? 

He stepped noiselessly a little nearer. There was 
something mournful in the attitude of the figure in 
the chair — the hands drooped wearily, the little head 
was thrown back listlessly, as though slumber had 


175 


176 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


caught it unawares, the face was pale, the lips curved 
sorrowfully — were those tears upon the cheeks and 
upon the dark locked lashes? 

There certainly was something glistening on that 
pretty oval cheek — was it a tear, was it? Mark felt 
he must know. He drew nearer still and bent over 
the girl, his usually impassive face assuming an ex- 
pression of shocked and tender concern. At that 
moment, with a great start, she awoke and looked 
at him. Her blue eyes, heavy still with slumber and 
recent sorrow, immediately assumed an expression of 
dislike, mingled with fear. 

Mark hastily resumed an erect position, but his face 
did not at once regain its composure; on the contrary, 
it looked a little foolish and very much troubled. 
The expression which had all at once leaped into 
Erin’s waking eyes disturbed him even more than the 
tears which he had so unwillingly detected. Why 
did the child look at him like that? Drawing a long 
breath, he made an effort to regain his assurance. 
Was it not natural, after all, that she should be 
startled by his sudden apparition; when they had 
chatted together for a little bit her self-possession 
would return to her. '' I am so very sorry I awoke 
you,” he observed, with his usual airy manner. 
'' I wanted to make sure you really were asleep, or I 
should not have run the risk of disturbing you — ” he 
broke off, laughing at himself. I must say I have 
worded my excuse after a fashion that would do 
credit to one of your own countrymen.” 

For goodness’ sake do not bring up the subject 
of my countrymen again,” cried Erin, petulantly. 


BURYING THE HATCHET, 


177 


She half rose, as though to put an end to the 
conversation; but Mark, seating himself astride of a 
small cane chair that stood handy, with apparent 
unconsciousness barred her path. “ I am so glad you 
are awake,” he observed pleasantly, '' I am just in the 
mood for a little talk.” 

The girl had unwillingly reseated herself, and now 
looked at him with that odd blend of defiance, dis- 
like, and fear, which had before made Mark feel 
uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to see such 
an expression on the countenance of anyone on whom 
he chose to bestow his society, particularly when the 
person in question happened to be a woman. 

As he now sat, gently rocking his chair in a 
manner somewhat dangerous to its slender propor- 
tions, and contemplating Erin, he was conscious of an 
inward pangof annoyance, mingled with self-reproach. 
This child was afraid of him — unpleasantly afraid of 
him; it was a state of things not to be tolerated. He 
ceased rocking the chair and spoke gravely and 
earnestly. 

'' My excuse was a very poor one, particularly as it 
did not happen to be true. I was perfectly aware that 
you were asleep, and took advantage of the fact to try 
and find out if you had been crying.” 

Erin flushed, and the hands folded on her lap 
trembled; she longed to leave the room, but had not 
the courage to make her way past her questioner. 

'' I know you think me very impertinent,” he 
pursued, almost humbly; ''but I can’t help it. I see 
that you have been crying, and I have a very uncom- 
fortable idea that it was partly my fault.” 


178 


BURYING THE HATCHET, 


Erin had been quite unprepared for this direct 
attack, and was for a moment unable to meet it. She 
was physically weak after the excitement of the pre- 
vious night, and had been further unnerved by the 
discussion of the morning. She did not feel equal to 
a renewal of this discussion now, and her countenance 
so plainly expressed this repugnance that his remorse 
was increased. 

'' I believe,’’ he cried, with a vexed laugh, you are 
half afraid to talk to me at all! You think I must 
be going to say something disagreeable! ” 

'' Well, you have said a good many disagreeable 
things to me, haven’t you?’^ retorted Erin, with spirit. 

'‘And yet,” interposed Mark, suddenly dropping 
his chin on his folded hands, which were crossed over 
the back of the chair, " I think you are more angry 
with me when I am silent than when I speak.” 

" Because your silence is so contemptuous! If you 
would argue fairly — if you would give me the chance 
of saying what it is I feel, and why I feel it, it would 
be a different matter. But you never do.” 

Mark sighed. " The fact is,” he explained, " I have 
a constitutional dislike to talking politics with women. 
I never do if I can help it. I have to, of course, some- 
times, but I will not disguise from you that it bores, 
me. I will even admit, in cofifidence, that I find the 
ladies of the Primrose League a little wearing!” 

He raised his head again, laughing; then added, in 
a more serious tone, “ In your case, I must tell you 
frankly that I dislike intensely to hear you patter off 
so glibly the cheap jargon which I am accustomed to 
hear too much of elsewhere. Your lips were framed 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


179 


for quite a different prattle, and your mind was meant 
to feed on other stuff — to me there is something so 
incongruous between yourself and your views that 
I feel personally injured and affronted when I hear| 
you discuss them. There! forgive me this last dis- 
agreeable speech, and let us bury the hatchet in 
future.’’ 

Erin sprang up hastily. 

Let me pass, please,” she cried, imperiously, I 
really can see no object in prolonging this conversa- 
tion. I must say, I cannot understand you,” she 
continued, with more heat. You say you are sorry 
for having wounded me — you pretend to apologize, 
and then you insult me again! ” 

Mark had jerked his chair backwards when she 
rose, and sat looking at her sideways, a little taken 
aback at this sudden outburst. Now, however, as she 
remained standing before him, he was obliged to rise 
too, but he did not move out of the way. 

'' Such is the reward of virtue in this life,” he re- 
marked, plaintively. ''You have several times accused 
me of being insincere. Miss Erin; yet, when I do 
speak my mind plainly, you are angry! Forgive me, 
and let us forget politics. Good heavens! there are 
other things in the world besides politics.” 

"How can I forget them?” cried Erin, passionately. 
" You do not know what my life has been. How can 
I forget what I have seen, and heard, and felt? I have 
myself suffered from the oppression under which my 
country is groaning! ” 

She paused, fancying that she saw Mark Wim- 
bourne wince, but continued, vehemently, " I cannot 


180 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


help it if my speech offends your ears, I must speak 
of things as I know them. Besides,” with a sudden, 
quick change of tone, '' even if I could forget, you 
would not let me. Are you not always sneering at 
the things which I hold dear, jeering at my country 
and the friends of my country? You lead on Sir 
Edward, and he becomes worse than you — yes, you 
do, and it is ungenerous of you, for you know I can- 
not retort to him, and sometimes I can hardly sit still.” 
She expected him to make some sarcastic retort; but 
when he next spoke, it was, to her surprise, with 
exceeding gentleness: — 

'' My little friend and fellow traveller, let us make 
peace. Believe me, when I tell you that I am sorry 
for having annoyed you — I am more than sorry. I 
cannot forgive myself for having made you cry.” 

Erin looked up, startled by his sudden change of 
tone; he seemed to speak with real feeling, there was 
genuine kindness in his eyes, and his smile was 
almost tender. But she was still doubtful and on the 
defensive; this man could play any part he chose; had 
she not already proved him to be insincere? 

‘‘Will you not shake hands?” said Mark. 

Scarcely waiting for her permission, his strong 
fingers closed on her cold and passive ones; he held 
them a moment, and then let them go, looking into 
her eyes the while. 

“ You have not really forgiven me,” he said softly. 
“ How am I to make you forgive me? ” 

Erin was silent, and he went on, speaking indul- 
gently, as one would speak to a child — a tone, be it 
said, which Erin found harder to bear than his most 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


181 


sarcastic one. “ Come, how shall I do penance for 
my misdemeanors? Will it satisfy you if I give you 
permission to say every hard thing you like of the 
cruel Saxon? I will promise to bear it with equa- 
nimity, even with cheerfulness. Seriously, I wish I 
knew how to bring about a renewal of our friendship.’’ 

''We can never be friends,” cried Erin, passionately. 
." We are unsympathetic to each other — we have not 
a thought nor a feeling in common. I have been un- 
happy ever since you came — everything that I hold 
most dear, most sacred, is a sport to you, and you 
cannot even understand how you make me suffer.” 

"I?” cried Mark, with an astonishment and 
emotion which even Erin could see was unfeigned. 
" Upon my word and honor, I had no idea the matter 
went so deep with you.” 

" How can it fail to go deep with me? ” she inter- 
rupted. " Believe me or not, as you choose, the 
strongest and warmest feeling I possess is love for 
my country. For years I had nothing else — I had 
nothing else to love. My only friends, the peasants 
who brought me up, were driven from their home 
and exiled to America. The priest, who was the only 
father I ever knew, died when I was still a child, and 
I was left alone — dependent in the house of a man I 
hated. Then it was that I first remembered that I had 
a country to love and live for — and I have loved and 
lived for it ever since. Oh! I know you cannot under- 
stand me — you think I am talking wildly. I can only 
tell you it is so. When you insult my country,” she 
went on, leaning forward eagerly, her lips quivering, 
her eyes shining, her whole frame shaking with strong. 


182 


BURYING THE HATCHET, 


and to Mark inexplicable, emotion — ''when you insult 
my country, I feel as though you struck me.” 

Mark was startled, almost shocked; the language 
was exaggerated, the comparison extravagant, but 
there was no mistaking the deep and passionate 
sincerity of look and tone. The girl meant what she 
said, and felt it. He sat upright, gazing at her for a 
moment, before replying; then he exclaimed, with 
genuine emotion, " What a brute beast you must 
think me.” 

The unexpectedness of the comment made Erin 
laugh, but she quickly became grave again, and in- 
voluntarily stretched out her hands with a piteous 
gesture, crying with unconscious pathos, "No, indeed, 
I don’t think that — it only seems to me hard that you 
won't understand! ” 

" I mean to understand now,” said Mark, with the 
curious, persuasive gentleness which he could assume 
when he chose, and which most people found irre- 
sistible. "As you say, I do not know your life, nor 
realize how it is that you have come to take these 
matters to heart so keenly. Suppose you were to tell 
me all about it, now — it interests me very much, and 
I should be really grateful if you would.” 

Erin — still a prey to the most intense excitement, 
sharp enough, moreover, to discover that this time, at 
least, the interest was not assumed, and actuated 
accordingly by a sudden wild hope of gaining over 
to her cause this notable adversary — launched out, 
after a moment’s pause, into the story of her child- 
hood. She described the scenes which had made so 
deep an impression upon her in the past with a pic- 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


183 


turesqueness which rendered them vivid; she spoke 
of the people and surroundings whose influence had 
moulded her character with a tenderness which Mark 
had not given her credit for possessing; when she 
told of those lonely months which succeeded Father 
LaloFs death, and how, in her desperate craving for 
some worthy object on which to pour out her young 
love and enthusiasm, she had stretched out her arms 
on the solitary hill-top, and kissed its mossy surface, 
and dreamed that she was being clasped to the bosom 
of her mother, he heaved a little impatient sigh, and 
looked at her so oddly that she broke off suddenly, 
sobered and ashamed. 

Now, you are laughing at me,’’ she cried, 
tremulously. 

I never felt less inclined to laugh in my life,” 
asserted Mark. On the contrary, I don’t think I 
ever heard anything so pathetic. Please go on.” 

There is no more to say now,” said Erin, shyly. 

You know all about my school-life and how I come 
to be here. It was very kind of you to listen so 
patiently,” she added, with a certain timid gratitude 
which Mark found touching, and also surprising. 
‘'And now you — you will have more sympathy, will 
you not? ” 

“ I will have a great deal more sympathy with you,’"’ 
returned Mark, more moved than he would have cared 
to own to himself. 

“And with my people?” pleaded Erin again, 
leaning forward and looking at him with those great, 
earnest, innocent e3^es, which could not have been 
coquettish if they had tried. 


184 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


I will promise/’ said Mark, very gravely, never 
again to speak of your people in your presence in a 
manner which might hurt you.” 

Erin’s face fell. 

'' But you will not think of them less harshly, — yoi^ 
will still try to oppose their hopes?” 

'' Every man must think for himself,” returned 
Mark, still gravely and gently, and act as it seems 
to him right.” 

Erin rose, but ill-satisfied; and this time Mark 
suffered her to pass without further protest. She 
walked to the door with lagging steps, half expecting, 
poor, little, unsophisticated creature! that Mark 
would call her back to offer some compromise. She 
had made it all so clear to him, she had told him so 
plainly what she had seen, and what she had known. 
He had been so evidently impressed by the recital that 
she could not understand how his prejudices could 
endure. 

When Lady Tweedale returned, she found her 
nephew standing at the drawing-room window, near 
which Erin had been sitting, drumming absently on 
the pane. 

What! you here, Mark, and all alone? Why did 
you not go out with your uncle? I fear you must 
have been having a dull time of it.” 

'' I have had anything but a dull time,” responded 
Mark, without turning round. “I have been talking to 
Miss Erin — I never knew so much about her 
before.” 

‘'And what do you think of her now? ” inquired his 
aunt, dropping into the armchair beside him. 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


185 


“ I think her most peculiar — most extraordinary,’' 
replied Mark, suddenly turning, so as to face her. 

Lady Tweedale looked a little discomfited. '' Of 
course she has had the most extraordinary bringing 
up — you must make allowances for her prejudices — 
they will disappear in time.’' 

“On the contrary, her prejudices appear to me 
most deeply rooted. Her views of life are partly 
those of a child, and partly those of a poet; largely, 
alas! colored by the objectionable tenets of the 
party to which she elects to belong. No, she 
will never change — and perhaps it is all for the 
best.” 

“ My dear Mark, why should you say that? ” 

“ Because she is perfectly adorable as she is,” he 
returned, coolly. 

Lady Tweedale burst out laughing. 

“ You take my breath away,” — then, with a sudden 
change of tone — “You are jesting as usual; but I 
will not have my little Erin turned into ridicule. She 
is a sweet, lovable child.” 

“ I assure you, I am perfectly serious. ' Lovable is 
too tame a word to apply to such a personality. I tell 
you, she is adorable.” And with that, he stepped 
quietly past his aunt, and went out of the room. 

Mark’s relations with Erin were soon established on 
a very friendly footing. Sometimes it seemed to her 
that her first conception of his character had been the 
right one, and that she had not been mistaken of old 
in assigning to the companion of her travels a very 
high place in her esteem. But then she would 
remember with an impatient sigh the various 


186 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


unpleasant discoveries she had made since Mark’s 
arrival, and the views to which he had himself given 
voice. There seemed to be two people in Mark 
Wimbourne — which was the real character and 
which the assumed? She studied him with a little 
suspicious air, which amused him mightily, though 
he was careful to appear unconscious; being, never- 
theless, all the more determined to make her abandon 
her guarded attitude, and become at her ease with 
him. His promise of refraining from all discussions 
which might wound or offend her was strictly 
adhered to; he even adroitly turned the conversation 
when it threatened to touch on dangerous topics. 
Sir Edward, indeed, unable to understand why 
Mark was so slow in joining in his animadversions 
against his political opponents, complained that he 
was getting dull, whereupon Mark smiled affably 
and went on talking about books or the fine arts. 
On these grounds Erin and he could meet with all 
safety and sympathy; in truth, she found ever more 
and more pleasure and interest in their conversations. 
His advice proved especially valuable where books 
were concerned. Erin had read widely, but was 
curiously behind the age in her choice of books. 
She was almost totally ignorant of the works of 
modern English writers; and though, as Mark can- 
didly confessed, she had not lost much by this 
abstinence, there were, nevertheless, many authors 
with whom it was imperative that she should at once 
become acquainted — Stevenson, for instance, was it 
possible that she had never heard of Stevenson? 
Nevertheless, she was to be envied rather than com- 


BURYING THE HATCHET, 


187 


miserated since she was now to have the joy of 
reading him for the first time. 

Erin, therefore, began at once with Kidnapped,’’ 
and went on in quick succession with others of the 
master’s works. Mark declared that she read them 
too quickly; their full flavor could scarcely be 
extracted when devoured so eagerly; however, as it 
gave him the pleasure of discussing them with her, 
he would not complain. 

One day she came down to luncheon a little dis- 
posed to cavil at Virginibus Puerisque,” which she 
was then reading. 

‘Mt is too paradoxical,” she cried; he is disin- 
genuous, artificial. I think so, at least, though, of 
course, my opinion goes for nothing. I was angry 
the whole time I was reading it. His views are dis- 
torted — he perverts his beautiful style to the service 
of a false theory. He himself discourses wittily, and 
apparently with the utmost candor about truth, or 
rather the rarity of truth, and yet the whole essay is 
but a half-truth.” 

‘‘Which,” interposed Mark, “surely proves his case.” 

“Do you agree with him?” flashed out Erin, 
turning round upon him suddenly. “ Oh, I should 
hate to believe him — I should hate to go through 
life doubting and misconstruing people and their 
motives.” 

“ It cuts both ways,” replied Mark. “ If you doubt 
the good, you can also doubt the evil. If your stand- 
ard is not too high, it can be wider, more tolerant. 
Everything in this world is a mixture of good and 
evil.” 


188 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


'' But truth surely is the one thing which cannot 
exist unless it be perfect/' cried the girl warmly. 

‘‘ It depends upon what you call truth. Are we 
to consider the thing as it is, or as we see it — Joan, 
would you oblige me by giving me the water? Now, 
look here, Miss Fitzgerald, look at my hand/' sud- 
denly placing it behind the glass jug. If anybody 
were to ask you what you saw, you could describe 
with perfect truth a very large, coarse, ugly, misshapen 
hand, with a phenomenally rough skin and distorted 
fingers — the fact would be true. I am sitting close 
beside you, and you saw my hand with your own 
eyes through perfectly clear glass and pure water. 
Nevertheless, my friends would not recognize my 
hand as thus described. Now, I have given you an 
object lesson after the best manner of Mr. Barlow, 
and the moral of it is, that circumstances alter cases, 
and that much depends on the point of view. It is 
not always good to rely entirely on our personal 
judgment." 

Is Mark wanting us to admire his hands? " inter- 
posed Sir Edward, looking up from his cold beef. 
He did not, as a rule, join in any such discussions as 
the foregoing one, but had caught a stray word here 
and there of Mark's speech, and chuckled as he saw 
him push away the jug and hold out for examination 
his refined and well-shaped hands. '' Mark, you are 
a very fine fellow altogether; I gather that this is the 
fact you wish to impress upon us." 

'' Now, papa, that's not fair," exclaimed Joan. 
'' On the contrary, I always think one of Mark's 
objects in life is to make himself out worse than he is. 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


189 


I do/’ she continued vehemently, as her father uttered 
a derisive Ho! ho! ho! ” and even Lady Tweedale 
chimed in with a sort of protest. '‘When Mark does a 
generous action he tries to do away with the effect 
by sneering at it. He is always trying to disguise his 
motives. It all comes from his having such a horror 
of affectation and humbug. It is all very fine, you 
know, Mark,” she continued, addressing him, " you 
mayn’t want us to think too highly of you, but it 
makes you a little bit of a hypocrite the other way 
round.” 

" Dear me,” said Mark, imperturbably, " I had no 
idea I was such a high-minded fellow. I am afraid, 
Joan, this nobility of mind exists only in your own 
imagination. Does any one else here present think 
I am a hypocrite, noble or otherwise?” His keen 
eyes wandering round the table rested on Erin, who, 
pi-qued by his recent remarks, took up the challenge 
promptly and boldly. 

" Not a hypocrite,” she said; " but a little artificial.” 

Mark gave a surprised laugh; he had not been pre- 
pared for this piece of criticism, and was unpleasantly 
affected by it. He did not reply, however, and Lady 
Tweedale, with a certain dignified displeasure, took 
up the cudgels in his defence. 

" If by being artificial, my dear,” she said, " you 
mean to refer to certain little affectations and manner- 
isms which you may have observed in my nephew, 
I assure you they are not personal to Mark. They 
belong to the age; young men assume them insensi- 
bly; there is a fashion about these things, just as there 
is in the cut of a collar, or the shape of a hat.” 


190 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


'‘This is most instructive and edifying,” commented 
Mark. " Thank you, everybody; I was never before 
in a position to realize the exact effect I produce on 
my friends and relations. I am so glad you think my 
affectations belong to the age. Aunt Adela. And my 
little Joan thinks me a high-minded hero! Miss Erin 
considers me artificial. Where is the real man, I won- 
der? It seems to me you are all looking at me through 
the water jug.” 

" You take good care that none of us shall know 
the real man,” cried Joan. 

Mark smiled at her across the table, remarking, 
" little Joan,” in a tone which betokened much amuse- 
ment; but he made no further comment, and the topic 
was allowed to drop. 

In the afternoon, it was proposed that the girls 
should accompany Sir Edward and Mark in a walk 
through the Bois de la Canbre. Mark was to leave 
on the following morning, and had laughingly inti- 
mated the desirability of making as much profit as 
possible of the remaining hours of his society. 

They walked four abreast down the Avenue Louise, 
but, when they reached the woods, they unconsciously 
paired off; Sir Edward leading the way with Joan, 
while Mark and Erin followed more leisurely. Sir 
Edward, who frequently declared that his daily walk 
in this wood was the only thing which made his 
present existence tolerable, was now in his glory. He 
set his hat well to the back of his head, unbuttoned his 
waistcoat, and, puffing away contentedly at a short 
and odoriferous pipe, stumped along at a prodigious 
rate, occasionally halting to point out the beauties of 


BURYING THE HATCHET, 


191 


the scenery with his stout blackthorn stick. The oc- 
cupants of the carriages which at this hour thronged 
the wider avenues of the Bois, and the occasional 
parties of fashionable folk who found their way to the 
less frequented alleys, turned round to stare and laugh 
at the bluff old Englishman. 

Mark, watching him from a distance of twenty 
paces or so, was much diverted. 

“ Was I not wise to propose our following from 
afar? ” he said. Thank heaven, no one is likely to 
guess our connection with my uncle.’’ 

'' I shouldn’t in the least care if they did,” re- 
sponded Erin. Fine old man! At least there is 
no humbug about him! ” 

My admission is a fresh proof of my artificiality, 
you think, don’t you? You are wrong — if you 
reflect a little, you will see that, on the contrary, it 
was prompted by candor. I might have pretended 
that I only wanted to walk slowly in order to enjoy 
the undisturbed possession of your society.” 

If you had, I should not have believed you,” 
replied Erin, laughing; now that she knew Mark 
better, she could meet these unexpected speeches of 
his more coolly. ''Remember,” she continued saucily, 
" you explained to me long ago that I was not to have 
any illusions about you. I certainly have none now.” 

"Are you quite sure?” inquired Mark, suddenly 
pausing and looking full at her. " You may have 
different kinds of false ideas, you know. One may 
have illusions, and one may also have prejudices. I 
should like you to know me as I am.” 

He spoke with perfect seriousness, even, as Erin 


192 


BURYING THE HATCHET. 


fancied, with some trace of emotion. The fancy was 
but momentary, however, for he immediately turned 
to walk on, making some casual remark about not 
losing sight of Sir Edward and Joan. But Erin had 
been roused, infected by the earnestness of his tone, 
and was disposed to push the point a little further. 

How is it possible to know you?’’ she cried. 

Does not even Joan, your warmest champion, 
declare that you take pleasure in disguising your 
real thoughts and feelings? Besides,” she added, 
with increasing irritation, one can never count on 
you for two minutes together; you appear quite in 
earnest about a thing one moment, and in the next 
you mock at it. You are not in any way reliable, 
even when you make a promise.” 

'' Come,” interrupted Mark, quickly, '' when have 
you known me to break a promise?” 

'' Only to-day,” retorted Erin, no less vehemently. 
‘‘ Will you deny that your ^ object lesson ^ at lunch 
was intended to reflect upon my political views — 
which you had promised to avoid discussing? You 
wished indirectly to rebuke my prejudice against 
your party.” 

''As it happens,” he replied quietly, " my motives 
were much less disinterested and impersonal. I was 
thinking of myself, and only wished to convey to 
you that it might be well if you could detach my 
personality from your preconceived ideas of my 
opinions and surroundings — if, in fact, you could look 
on me as the man, your friend, without prejudice.” 

He once more paused to look at her, this time so 
kindly that she was affected in spite of herself. But 


BURYING THE HATCH T. 


11,3 


at this interesting juncture the stentorian tones of 
Sir Edward startled them both. He was adjuring 
them, in no measured terms, to leave off dawdling 
miles behind. Joan was getting tired of talking to 
him, and Mark had the matches in his pocket. 

The next morning, Mark Wimbourne went away. 
He duly said farewell to Erin at the breakfast-table, 
and was escorted to the porte cochere by his relatives. 
Erin, left alone in the dining-room, sat looking some- 
what pensively at her untasted tea, when rapid steps 
sounded in the hall without, and Mark’s voice was 
heard crying, “All right, I am coming directly.” 

In another moment he entered hastily, crossing the 
room rapidly to where Erin sat. His handsome face 
was a little flushed, and he laughed in an odd, 
agitated way. 

“ Have you forgotten anything? ” inquired Erin, 
rising, and feeling agitated too, she knew not why. 

Tie stretched out his hand. “ I want to tell you,” 
he said, hurriedly, “ that I was quite in earnest yester- 
day when I begged you to think of me without 
prejudice. That’s all — good-by.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


love’s young dream. 

OWARDS the end of the following March the 
Tweedales returned home, accompanied of 
course by Erin, who was much struck by the tenants" 
reception of their lord and by the real affection which 
formed so strong a bond between them. These rugged 
and occasionally surly north country folk interested 
her; the quaint, antiquated charm of the old place 
itself grew upon her more and more every day. By- 
and-by when Lady Tweedale filled the house with 
guests she was for the time being infected by the 
light-hearted spirit prevalent in the establishment. 
She found it novel and pleasant to look on at this 
gathering, and study the relations of the Tweedales 
and their visitors. She rejoiced to see how popular 
her friends were, how cordially every one welcomed 
them back; it amused her to listen to the prattle of 
the younger folk, and she was deeply interested in 
the more serious conversation of the elders. She kept 
her eyes and ears open, inwardly taking note of, and 
criticising all that went on. The approaching general 
election was, of course, a theme that was commonly 
discussed; and, though the remarks which Erin over- 
heard not infrequently roused her hot indignation, 
she was nevertheless glad of the opportunity of be- 


194 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM. 


195 


coming acquainted with the views of her political 
adversaries. A point which impressed her very par- 
ticularly was the universal respect and admiration 
called forth by the ability of Mr. Mark Wimbourre. 
She was quite astonished, indeed, to find that so 
young a man could exercise a sway so far-reaching 
and important. 

'' He will be in the Cabinet some day,” remarked 
one old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. 
'' He’s a coming man. One of our best speakers — 
and a long-headed fellow to boot.” 

No wonder, thought Erin, this important personage 
should have disdained to discuss politics with her. 
And yet, with all that cleverness, with his unexampled 
opportunities, how blind he was, how prejudiced! 
The word recalled his farewell appeal to her — Think 
of me without prejudice! ” And her heart smote her. 
How glad she could have been at the success of her 
friend, if only — if only, he had not also been her 
enemy. What an unfortunate fate was that which 
forbade her to join in the general chorus of apprecia- 
tion, which forced her to deplore the astuteness and 
ability that would only be used against the interests 
of her country. She thought of Mark’s face as she 
had last seen it, so handsome — all the handsomer for 
that momentary flash of emotion, of his laughing eyes, 
his smile — with a kind of pain. There was a barrier 
between them which could never be passed — a gulf 
which widened day by day. Her pain and irritation 
were increased by the discovery that it was owing to 
Mark’s candidature that his seat had been gained to 
the Conservative party at the last election. Hi-herlo 


196 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM. 


that particular division of the county had invariably 
returned a Liberal; several small towns in the district 
which he now represented had been considered, Erin 
was informed, hot-beds of Radicalism.’’ The change 
was not brought about entirely by his personal influ- 
ence, or his reputation as a clever fellow, or even by 
the admirable manner in which his partisans had 
worked up his cause; but was due largely to the fact 
of his relationship to the Tweedales. It was well 
known that old Sir Edward’s people were accustomed 
to vote on whatever side he decided was best for them; 
and as he was owner of one of the mxost extensive 
properties in that part of the world, it may be gathered 
that this decision of his carried no small weight. Once 
upon a time, indeed, Sir Edward, like most of his 
co-religionists, had been a Liberal; but of late years 
he had changed, or rather, as he was careful to explain 
when alluding to his political views, the times them- 
selves had changed, and the policy pursued by the 
Conservatives was as nearly as possible the policy 
which he had been accustomed to support in his youth. 
Any of his people who voted at all had followed his 
lead; but as the elections generally took place at a 
busy time of the year, when they were getting in their 
hay, or carrying their corn, a good many of them 
considered that a visit to the polling booth would 
involve a considerable waste of time, and a good many 
more were blissfully unconscious of the fact that they 
were entitled to vote at all. Sir Edward himself had 
been a little supine; but when the country was agitated 
by such burning questions, and when, moreover, his 
own nephew had volunteered to stand, it had been a 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM. 


197 


different matter. Sir Edward had convoked meetings, 
and made speeches, and assiduously canvassed; and 
Lady Tweedale had instituted a branch of the Prim- 
rose League in the vicinity of Fletewood, and all the 
people whose names ought to be on the register were 
immediately enrolled, and altogether they had worked 
wonders. 

Erin could hardly keep quiet over what seemed to 
her a flagrant reversion of power and influence. She 
did not agree with Sir Edward’s argument, that what- 
ever was right for him must necessarily be right for 
his tenants. To her his interference seemed an abso- 
lute violation of the laws of justice and equity. It was 
maddening to think that one voice more had been 
added to the chorus of those who would cry down the 
rights of Ireland, one more conquest gained over her 
by such means as these, and to think that if Mark had 
not profited by his exceptional position, this would 
not have been. Mark should not admit of such sup- 
port, he should not stoop to take so base an advan- 
tage. When she saw him, he should know her opinion 
of his conduct — yes, much as he hated her allusions 
to such matters, he should for once hear the plain 
truth. 

With Whitsuntide came a visit from Alark him- 
self. He seemed to be in a particularly joyous 
mood, a mood, in fact, of gayety so contagious that 
even Erin was insensibly affected by it. It is scarcely 
possible to continue wrathful with a culprit who was 
not only utterly unconscious of offence, but evinced 
the greatest possible pleasure at the sight of his judge, 
and made open and eager efforts to secure as much 


198 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM, 


as possible of her society. His mood was not only 
gay, but in a manner soft; one which, as a rule, was 
rare with him, and perhaps its very unusualness made 
it the more fascinating. Erin was vexed with herself 
for being mollified, and endeavored to rally her stern 
resolutions, and to regain a sufficient measure of her 
former indignation to enable her to deliver the lecture 
which had been so long impending. On the day 
before his departure the opportunity came. Mark had 
invited her for a stroll round the woods; Joan had 
gone out riding with her father, and Lady Tweedale 
was '' busy ” — in fact, that good lady had probably 
her own reasons for not wishing to interrupt the tHe- 
d-tete, and Erin was glad to be alone with Mark, for 
she had that morning registered a weighty resolve to 
speak her mind to him without further delay. 

It was, however, a little difficult to begin. It was 
hard to say disagreeable things to a man who was 
talking in the most delightful manner of matters that 
were new and interesting. Then the day was so 
bright, so warm; the north country air was so invig- 
orating, for all its sunshine; here in the woods it was 
so delicious — that mist of bluebells yonder looked so 
cool; out in the open, too, were occasional glimpses 
of flowering may trees, creamy or rosy, and laburnums 
ablaze with gold, while the lilacs dotted here and there 
along the edge of the plantation, filled the air with 
their delicate breath — it seemed a kind of desecration 
to break in upon the universal harmony with jarring 
words. 

When they reached the heart of the woods, how- 
ever, and seated themselves on a mossy bank which 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


199 


overlooked one of the ponds, she took her courage in 
both hands, and informed Mark gravely that she had 
something to say to him. 

“ I knew you had,’’ he responded. “ It has been 
weighing on you ever since we left the house, hasn’t 
it? You have answered some of my remarks rather 
at random, do you know? Well, now, let us hear. 
You are going to quarrel with me — I am quite 
prepared for that.” 

“ Yes, I am. I am going to talk in a way that you 
hate, but I can’t help it. I want to tell you things that 
have been on my mind, for a long time — I must talk 
about them, because I feel it is hypocritical of me to 
go on treating you as a friend while I think as I do 
of your conduct.” 

Seeing the entire gravity of her face, Mark com- 
posed his own; then, turning a little more towards 
her, waited in silence. This silence he preserved, 
while Erin, growing rather white, and speaking in 
tones which trembled in spite of her, enumerated her 
different causes of dissatisfaction with him. ' 

'' I cannot feel,” she summed up, '' that it was right 
or honorable in you to take advantage of your ex- 
ceptional position, as Sir Edward’s nephew, to secure 
for your party a seat which could not have been won 
by ordinary or fair means. If these village people had 
been left alone, they would probably have sympathized 
with the suffering and struggling rural population of 
Ireland, who are their co-religionists, after all, and 
they would have endeavored to help them. I am 
sure that, if they really understood the state of the 
case, they would have chosen some one to represent 


200 


LOVES- YOUNG DREAM, 


them whose aim would have been the good of Ireland 
and not the destruction of her interests.” 

'' I assure you,” said Mark, that their present 
member is genuinely anxious — little as you may 
believe it — to do Ireland good and to promote her 
real prosperity ” 

You would do her good in your way, though,” 
interrupted Erin, ''not in the way she wants. You 
would be like the schoolmiaster who considers the 
birch rod good for the child in his power.” 

"An occasional judicious application of the birch 
rod is no doubt beneficial,” returned Mark, calmly; 
" but your simile is not quite appropriate. Say rather 
that we refused to put a knife in the hands of the child 
who is not to be trusted with it. We give it plenty 
of good meat, but we think it wiser to cut it up for it. 
I don’t think you quite realize all that we have done 
for Ireland; we will do more yet if Ireland will only 
behave herself — but now please, please, let us con- 
sider the discussion closed. I assure you, though you 
may not believe it, there is some conscience and 
honor on our side — we are doing our best, and the 
result of our efforts will be judged by posterity. You 
must remember that legislative work resembles build- 
ers’ work. You cannot judge of the proportions of 
your tower while it is in course of erection; the day 
will come when people will admire its height and 
strength, and appreciate the labors of those who 
constructed it; but while these labors are in progress, 
all that each workman must think of is where to 
place his stone so that it may give solidity to the 
edifice.” 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM. 


201 


''And now/' retorted Erin, "it is your simile which 
is inappropriate; you are not building up our tower — - 
on the contrary, you have demolished it. You would 
make of us nothing but a miserable buttress for your 
own." 

Mark smiled, the gratified and approving smile with 
which he invariably greeted Erin's repartees. 

" Well, now, you'll have pity on a poor, tired legis- 
lator, will you not? and let him enjoy his holiday in 
peace. It would be worse than unprofitable to carry 
on the argument, for we look at the matter from 
diametrically opposite points of view; however, as we 
are both perfectly happy in our own opinions, iEs all 
right, isn't it? " 

" You will not own that it was unfair of you to 
make use of your uncle's influence here? " 

" My dear Miss Erin, all is fair in love, war, and 
politics. I consider it a duty to make use of every 
possible advantage in the interests of my party; my 
dear old uncle has of late years supported that party, 
but is naturally a little more active in his exertions 
on its behalf, when the enlightened individual who 
comes forward as a Conservative candidate happens 
also to be his nephew. As for the good people here, 
their sympathies are not at all acute, and they con- 
cern themselves very little about politics. If my uncle 
didn't make up their minds for them, somebody else 
would " 

"They might, at least, have a chance of thinking for 
themselves," put in Erin, hotly. " I call the interfer- 
ence of a landlord, in such matters as these, tyranny." 

"Very well, call it tyranny by all means," agreed 


202 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM. 


Mark, affably. '' Sometimes people rather like to be 
tyrannized over — there are some very nice tyrants — 
and there are various kinds of tyranny. One may be 
tyrannized over, for instance, by an idea, a folly — a 
thing which, in one’s sober moments, one knows to be 
wild and impossible, and yet which haunts one, rules 
one, interferes wit! one in spite of one’s common- 
sense.” 

He slid a little lOwer down the bank, so as to sit 
almost at Erin’s feet; his face wore that softenecl 
expression, which she had noticed sometimes of late, 
and he spoke gently, almost abstractedly. 

There was silence now for a little time, Mark 
absently picking up pebbles and clods of earth and 
throwing them into the water, watching the ripples, 
as they spread and subsided. 

'' Do you know what it is,” he went on at last, '' to 
be tyrannized over by an idea? It may be a very 
extravagant one. You may own to yourself that it is 
fantastic, unwise, reprehensible — and yet you would 
not for worlds be without it. You cherish your tyrant; 
you succumb more and more to its sweet sway; you 
feel it gradually taking possession of you ~ you know 
that ultimately it will reign absolute, and will drive 
you to commit, who knows what folly — ” 

He broke off suddenly, throwing a last little pebble 
into the pool, and gazing at the water until it had 
become smooth again; then he turned towards Erin. 
His face was smiling, yet somehow it seemed to be 
stirred by some indefinable current of emotion. 

'^Do you know anything about that kind of thing?” 
he inquired. 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


20 :'> 

“ No/’ returned Erin, decidedly, '' I can’t conceive 
how anybody of any character could give way to a 
passion or emotion which he knows to be foolish or 
wrong.” 

''Oh, wrong,” rejoined Mark, quickly, "I’m not 
speaking of anything criminal — I am speaking of the 
tyranny of an idea, a desire, a passion if you will, 
which your reason and good sense may disapprove of; 
but which, nevertheless, may be too sweet and too 
fascinating to drive away.” 

" If it interferes with duty or principle,” returne 1 
Erin, sternly, " I think it should be driven away, in 
spite of its fascination, and no matter at what cost to 
one’s self.” 

"Always Antigone, ready for sacrifice,” he said, 
contemplating her with a smile, which had in it some- 
thing a little sad. There was a pause; then he got 
up laughing. 

" Haven’t I been talking nonsense? Shall we go 
and see the little pheasants now? ” 

During the remainder of the walk he was unusu- 
ally lively and amusing, no trace remaining of the 
curiously dreamy mood which had puzzled Erin. 

During the progress of that summer, however, she 
was frequently puzzled by Mark Wimbourne. Sir 
Edward was also perplexed by the new-found relish 
for country air suddenly developed by his town-bred 
nephew; for Mark assumed the habit of running up 
to Fletewood from Saturday to Monday, and, more- 
over, invited himself to pass there any spare days that 
he could snatch from his Parliamentary duties. 

Lady Tweedale appeared to be less astonished at 


204 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM. 


these visits, and Joan also discreetly forebore to com- 
ment on them. So discreet, indeed, were mother and 
daughter, so resolutely did they turn the conversation 
when Sir Edward inveighed against '' the oddity of 
that fellow’s popping up and down like that,” and so 
sedulously did they avoid the allusions to Mark’s 
cleverness, prospects, and good qualities, to which 
Erin had formerly been accustomed, that it at length 
dawned upon her that they actually thought Mark 
was growing fond of her. The idea seemed to her at 
first, utterly preposterous and ridiculous, and she with 
difficulty refrained from attacking Joan on the sub- 
ject; but an odd kind of reserve withheld her. She 
began to study Mark’s attitude towards herself, for 
the purpose of discovering yet more convincing proofs 
than those furnished by her own reason and common- 
sense, of the utter absurdity of her friends’ hypothesis; 
but by-and-by she began to feel a good deal per- 
plexed herself. Mark, undoubtedly, was rather odd 
in his demeanor towards her; she caught him gazing 
at her, sometimes, with an .expression which made her 
feel uncomfortable, and though he often laughed with 
her — he had, indeed, a sense of humor which, she 
owned to herself, might almost have befitted an Irish- 
man — he never now made sarcastic comments on 
what she said, or turned her theories into ridicule. 

Once or twice she endeavored to tempt him into 
a quarrel, but he only looked at her with his inscruta- 
ble smile and declined to respond. He made no secret 
of his preference for her society; and though, as a rule, 
a little languid, and not at all averse to being waited 
on himself — having, indeed, been indulged in this 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


respect by affectionate relatives and admiring friends 
— he showed an eagerness in anticipating Erin’s 
smallest wants, a desire to fetch and carry for her on 
every possible occasion, which filled Joan with secret 
amusement. 

Erin herself could not help being pleased and 
touched, and was, moreover, conscious of an occa- 
sional thrill of girlish vanity. By-and-by she ceased 
to see any absurdity in the idea that he was attracted 
by her, and owned to herself that Mark certainly did 
like her; and then a notion struck her — a notion which 
she at first dismissed, but which gradually grew and 
strengthened. Since Mark Wimbourne liked her, or 
rather loved her, with evident and ever-increasing 
devotion, since her power over him was so great, 
might it not be utilized for the furtherance of those 
aims which she had nearest at heart? Men had been 
moved by love, whom no other lever could stir one 
jot from their standpoint — if Mark, notable, brilliant 
Mark, could thus be won over to her side — ah, what 
a conquest that would be! and ah, how she would 
repay him for capitulating! True love could not exist 
without union of heart and mind; she would teach 
him to love her country, her people; together they 
would make plans, together they would work them 
out. He should love all that she loved, and in return, 
she would love him. She owned to herself that he 
was worthy of love, not merely because of the charm 
which was so universally acknowledged, but because 
of the many noble qualities which she recognized in 
him. He was upright, generous, large-minded; his 
ideals were lofty, and he now laid aside the somewhat 


206 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM, 


jealous reserve which had hitherto caused him to hide 
them under a veil of light mockery. He and Erin had 
now many discussions, during which he revealed much 
of his inner self; and the resultwas that she appreciated 
more and more this hitherto unknown Mark Wim- 
bourne; and insensibly began to bestow already that 
which should only have been the reward of the ex- 
pected concessions. She began to love Mark Wim- 
bourne ; and, as it was not in her nature to do anything 
by halves, she looked forward to their meetings as 
eagerly as he himself, and passed the days which inter- 
vened between his goings and comings in a blissful 
dream of expectancy. 

Matters had proceeded thus far, when, during the 
recess, it was announced that Mark would address a 
meeting of his constituents at the Fletewood school- 
house. All over the country such meetings were 
being held, the Government would go out in 
a few months, and politicians were everywhere 
busy. 

Out of regard for Erin’s susceptibilities the matter 
was discussed as little as possible in her presence — Sir 
Edward, who was at times inclined to forget the dis- 
cretion urged by his wife and daughter, being hushed 
up by the latter when hushing up was possible, or 
having his attention called to other matters. Some- 
times Erin wished they would not be quite so consid- 
erate. She wanted to know what people were saying 
and doing, with regard to a subject so vitally impor- 
tant in her eyes; above all, she longed to find out the 
exact items of Mark’s political programme. But she 
forebore to ask; the reserve which had kept her from 


LOVERS YOUNG DREAM 


207 


speaking much of Mark to her friends of late asserting 
itself now with redoubled force. She consoled herself, 
however, by thinking that she must know all soon; 
she would hear Mark speak, and he must necessarily 
make a clear statement of his views. The kind of 
dread with which she had first looked forward to the 
approaching meeting was now replaced by feverish 
expectancy; Mark’s demeanor had so much altered 
of late, he had grown so gentle, had shown himself to 
be so kind; surely she would detect in his speech some 
indication of softening towards her country, he would 
throw out at least some hint of an approaching change. 
Such a change would, she felt sure, be welcomed by 
many in his audience. In spite of what the Tweedales 
might say with regard to the indifference of the Flete- 
wood folks towards the interests of Ireland, Erin was 
inwardly convinced that the secret sympathies of many 
were on her side. It might be that Mark would not 
allude at all to the Irish question, and this tacit avoid- 
ance would be, as Erin joyously told herself, a good 
sign. 

Mark arrived late on the afternoon preceding that 
on which the meeting was tO' take place, and Erin 
had ho opportunity for private conversation with him 
before dinner. Afterwards, however, when they were 
drinking their coffee in the garden, he asked her if 
she would take a turn with him. She agreed, with an 
alacrity which was as flattering as unexpected. What 
would she not have done for him at this juncture? 
Each fresh proof of his devotedness made her thrill 
with tremulous hope; she must make the most, she 
told herself, of every opportunity for establishing her 


208 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


empire more firmly; the moment was fast approach- 
ing when she should judge of the real extent of her 
influence. 

So they paced away together in the moonlight 
towards the woods, which smelled aromatic in the 
warm summer air; from distant marshes they could 
hear the low, sweet piping of a reed-warbler, and near- 
er at hand the occasional tinkling of sheep bells in the 
neighboring fields; nearer still, the whirring wings 
of a startled pheasant, the boom of a beetle, the faint 
call of a bat. Amid all these sounds the woods were 
very silent, the rustle of Erin's draperies over the 
path and the rhythmical fall of Mark’s footsteps alone 
breaking the stillness. Neither spoke until they 
reached a kind of little clearing m the woods, in the 
midst of which was a small enclosed garden with a 
summer-house. Within the high yew hedge, which 
shut in the garden from profane eyes, there was a 
tiny lawn of velvet smoothness, all silvered with dew 
to-night, and beds of flowers, intoxicatingly sweet. 
Entering the summer-house, they sat down, one on 
each side of the rustic table, and looked at each other 
for the first time since they had left the garden. 
Mark’s face was white, Erin thought, or was it the 
moonlight? And was it the shadow of the shifting 
leaves that, as he bent forward, made it look so 
strange? 

You are very silent this evening,” said Erin, with 
a little, tremulous laugh. If she could only conquer 
her stupid shyness, surely now would be her time to 
plead, to promise; she knew that Mark loved her very 
much — could he^ refuse her anything that she might 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM, 


209 


ask? But when her little laugh had died away, she 
found herself for the moment tongue-tied. 

Was it, indeed, the shadow of the leaves, or was it 
fancy? It seemed to her that those long, slim fingers 
of Mark’s shook as they absently tapped the table. 
Why did he not speak? 

At last, with an impatient sigh, followed almost 
immediately by a smile, he said, '' Perhaps I am 
nervous! 

''You are thinking of to-morrow, I suppose,” 
returned Erin. " You will have to make a long 
speech — what are you going to say?” 

" Do not let us talk about my speech,” he said, " I 
want to be happy to-night. Let us talk about some- 
thing more interesting; let us talk about — love.” 

" Is not that rather a difficult subject to choose? ” 
inquired Erin, after a little pause. She endeavored 
to assume .a casual air, but he saw the tremor of her 
eyelids and noticed the fluttering of the soft laces at 
her bosom. 

Mark leaned back so that his face was in shadow, 
though those nervous hands of his told their own 
tale. The tone of his voice, however, when next he 
spoke, was calm and deliberate as ever. 

" I think it will be interesting,” he said, " for two 
people, so exceedingly unlike as we are, to compare 
notes on a subject which interests everybody.” 

" Is it not said that nowadays there is no such thing 
as love? ” remarked Erin. 

" Yes,” returned Mark in his tranquil, measured 
way; "but you do not believe that — and neither 
do I.” 


210 


lovers young dream. 


“ I should like to hear your theory first,'' she said, 
looking shyly towards the dim outline of his face. 

. '' My theory? Well, I think love is a disturbing 
sort of thing — a force before which even those who 
have most prided themselves on their strength of 
mind and will, find themselves powerless. In fact, the 
words of the old ditty describe it most accurately: — 

* Love, love, love, love, love, it is a dizziness. 

Won’t let a poor man go about his business ! ’ 

It^s perfectly true — love upsets one's plans, and 
destroys one's calculations; love is distracting, irre- 
sistible, and delightful! " 

If it is so mischievous, how can it be delightful? " 
inquired Erin, endeavoring to speak lightly, though 
Mark, from his ambush, took note of the timid, in- 
credulous joy in her face. He paused a moment 
before replying. 

One of its strangest attributes is that the mere 
fact of its existence compensates one for its 
destructiveness." 

Not always, surely? " 

'' Not always, perhaps — I am speaking of a happy 
love — or, perhaps,! should rather say" — with a quick, 
tender change of tone — ‘‘of a hopeful love. It brings 
delight in itself, and the expectation of greater 
delights to come." 

Both were silent for a moment, and then Erin said 
tremulously: 

“ I am glad you think that love, true love, should 
work a revolution in people^^s lives. I — I think so 
myself. A great, strong, real love should be gener- 
ous; it should lead one to give up much that one has 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM. 


211 


hitherto cherished to — to — how shall I say it? To 
identify one's self so entirely with the beloved, that 
one’s interests become the same, one’s ambitions the 
same. Ah, it is true,” she continued eagerly, gaining 
confidence as she warmed with the subject, love 
teaches one how to do all this. It — it is even sweet 
to conform one’s ideas to those of the loved one! 
What seemed impossible before, becomes all at once 
easy — one seems to finds one’s eyes suddenly 
opened ” 

Mark had leaned forward again, his face so trans- 
formed in its sudden eagerness and ardor that it was 
for a moment scarcely recognizable. He had stretched 
out his hand, he had opened his lips to speak, when of 
a sudden, with a duet of noisy, delighted barks, two 
great black retrievers rushed into the enclosure, and 
before the couple had recovered from their startled 
dismay. Sir Edward’s heavy step sounded on the little 
path. 

Come here, Turk, you are breaking all the nico- 
tinas! Get out. Sweep, you great, clumsy brute! 
Go to heel! Hullo, Mark, you’re a nice young man, 
cutting off like this, and leaving me to smoke my pipe 
all by myself! And what are you doing here, Erin? 
Laying in a stock of rheumatism, I should think. 
Why, she hasn’t got a thing over her shoulders! You 
might have got her a shawl or something, Mark.” 

'' I am quite warm, thank you,” returned Erin — 
Mark, for once, seemed to have no words ready — 
you see it is so sheltered here.” 

''Yes, it is a nice little place — the Folly of Flete- 
WQod, my father used to call it. We built it when we 


212 


LOVES YOUNG DREAM. 


were youngsters, my brother and I, and it has been 
uncommonly useful; but he never could see what 
we wanted with it, and it made him very angry. 
I recdect,’’ continued Sir Edward, seating himself 
beside Erin, and leisurely filling his pipe, I rec’lect 
once 

Here Mark heaved an impatient sigh. When his 
uncle said, '' I recdect,’’ in that tone, it meant they 
were in for a long story. Erin and he would have no 
further opportunity of comparing theories that night. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


^TWIXT CUP AND LIP/’ 


OOD-NATURED, unconscious Sir Edward, who 



had already so unwittingly put an end to an 
interesting situation, seemed determined to postpone 
as far as possible all further developments of it. He 
had so much to say to Mark in the morning that the 
latter had no chance of snatching even a few moments’ 
conversation with Erin, and as several politicians of 
the neighborhood, including dignitaries of the Prim- 
rose League, were invited to lunch, the duty of enter- 
taining them devolved chiefly on Mark; and the 
meeting itself was to take place at three o’clock. 

But Erin scarcely felt that she stood in need of 
an explanation; surely what Mark had said on 
the previous night was tantamount to a confession. 
Incredible, impossible, as it might seem, she had 
evidently conquered; love had worked a miracle — 
Mark was won over to her side. The strong man had 
owned his weakness. The Samson was shorn of his 
locks, and she herself was the Delilah by whose hand 
the deed had been accomplished. No, no, laughing 
to herself joyously over the comparison, hers was a 
nobler mission than Delilah’s, for she had not deprived 
her giant of his strength, but turned it to a nobler 
purpose. Ah! what would they not accomplish 


213 


214 


'^^TWIXT CUP AND LlP: 


together! When would the opportunity come for 
speaking clearly to each other, planning great work 
to be undertaken in the future? Blissfully, deliriously 
happy as she was in the present state of things, con- 
tent to rest in the contemplation of this unlooked-for 
change, she could not but await with eager anticipa- 
tion the moment when Mark should claim his reward, 
and she should give it. Meanwhile, a strange, sweet 
shyness took possession of her; she found it difficult 
to speak to Mark, and scarcely dared to look at him; 
but she noticed that he, too, though he was better able 
to disguise his emotions, was a little unlike himself. 
He looked a little dreamy, and answered occasionally 
at random; once or twice his eyes met Erin's, and he 
smiled at her in a way which made her quickly drop 
hers. 

After lunch he managed to snatch a moment with 
her. 

'' This evening we must finish our conversation,’’ 
he said; ''this time we must not be interrupted. 
Meanwhile, you have made me happier than I can 
express — I dared not hope so much. Ah I there is 
Uncle Edward again! I must go, I suppose. One 
thing I must make sure of — you will not go to the 
meeting to-day? " 

" Not go to the meeting? ” cried Erin, much taken 
aback. " Oh, I must go to that — I have been look- 
ing forward to it — I must hear you speak." 

Sir Edward was standing outside the window now, 
shouting in stentorian tones. 

" In a minute. Uncle Edward," cried Mark, a little 
irritably. " No, Erin, I beg you not to come — as a 


-^TWIXT CUP AND LiP: 


215 


favor to me — it would be too trying. Yes, Uncle 
Edward,” as the old baronet’s face, more ruddy than 
usual in consequence of his exertions, was now thrust 
into the room. '' I’m here, I’m coming! ” 

“ They are all waiting, you know,” explained Sir 
Edward. '' They want me to make a speech to start 
’em, but I’m not going to begin unless you are there 
to back me up. Dixon says he’s got to catch the 
5.40 to Liverpool, so you’ll have to look sharp. Here, 
come on — jump out of the window^ — that’s the 
quickest way.” Mark obeyed, turning to give a fare- 
well glance and smile to Erin, and in another moment 
she was alone. 

What did he mean by asking her not to be present 
at the meeting? Why, she of all others most natur- 
ally desired to be there. He looked as if he meant 
what he said; he had spoken persuasively, even 
urgently, he had asked for her compliance as a favor 
to himself. Well, there were few favors which she 
would refuse Mark Wimbourne, but this she could 
not grant. She could not, without making herself 
very remarkable, fail to put in an appearance that 
afternoon; she had several times announced her 
intention of being present — moreover, she wanted to 
be present — she could not keep away. She would 
choose an inconspicuous place, so that he might per- 
haps be unaware of her presence, which, doubtless, he 
feared might make him nervous. It could, of course, 
be for no other reason that he had asked her to keep 
away. '' It w^ould be trying,” he said. Doubtless he 
felt it already sufficiently difficult to formulate the 
change in his opinions, to confess the eradication of 


21G 


TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


his former prejudices. Oh, yes, she would be very 
quiet, she would squeeze herself into a most retired 
corner — but she must be there. She must hear and 
see him — in fact, she felt as though an irresistible 
force was drawing her — she could not keep away! 

The school-house was crowded to overflowing when 
she entered, and she took advantage of the fact to 
steal unobserved to a corner opposite the platform, 
where she entrenched herself behind a knot of sturdy 
electors, who, pending the arrival of the speakers, 
were discussing the condition of the crops. She 
could not long, however, congratulate herself upon 
her seclusion; for when, presently, Sir Edward and 
his party appeared upon the platform, the audience 
seated themselves, or obligingly flattened themselves 
against the w^all, in preparation for the coming ora- 
torical treat; and Erin’s whereabouts were conse- 
quently discovered by Joan, who promptly jumped 
down from the platform, and making her way through, 
insisted upon piloting her back to the same elevated 
position. Erin stole an uneasy glance at Mark, who 
was watching their progress, but his face betrayed 
nothing. He was a little paler than usual, but was 
talking pleasantly to his neighbors on the platform. 
Erin almost wished that she had not come — he wouLl 
perhaps be angry wdth her — and she was humiliat- 
ingly conscious of a dread of his anger. Oh, love did 
indeed work strange revolutions! She, who had 
cared so little what any one said or thought of her, 
who had, above all, prided herself on her independent 
attitude with regard to Mark, now secretly palpitated 
lest this first act of disobedience might provoke his 


^^^TWIXT CVP AND LIP: 


217 


displeasure. Yet, was it not natural, after all? Had 
he not himself owned to the extent of love’s power? 
No one could say that Mark was weak or easily 
influenced. 

By-and-by the speeches began, Sir Edward, 
being extremely colloquial and communicative, and 
his audience, at all times appreciative of his remarks, 
becoming quite enthusiastic when he reminded them 
of their privilege in being represented in Parliament 
by a person of such high qualities as his nephew. The 
speaker who followed alluded, in the same strain of 
eulogy, to the excellent work already accomplished 
by Air. Wimbourne, and to the still more valuable 
assistance which he would render to his party in the 
future. Erin listened with growing irritation to the 
orator’s forecast of the programme likely to be under- 
taken by this party, and was conscious of fierce irri- 
tation over his contemptuous reference to the unrea- 
sonable demands of the Irish faction, which it would 
be the duty of Unionists to combat and repress. She 
controlled her wrath, however, on reflecting that this 
was merely a part}^ war-cry, and no real indication of 
MarUs personal views. These he would presently 
define for himself — would he be silent on the subject 
of Irish affairs? Silence at this date would be pardon- 
able and even natural — the time was perchance not yet 
ripe for the disclosure which must so much astonish 
his hearers. Or, would he speak out boldly even 
to-day? Mark was not a cowardly man, though he 
was a prudent one. Oh, how she would love him, if 
for her sake he threw even prudence to the winds 
to-day! 


218 


'^TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


Now it was his turn; he smiled pleasantly as he 
stood for a moment facing the audience. Erin gazed 
at him with a glow of admiration. How handsome 
he was, how graceful, how much at ease. This was a 
lover to be proud of. She listened breathlessly when 
he began to speak. There was no doubt about his 
possessing all qualifications necessary to an orator; 
his voice was well modulated, his delivery excellent, 
his words carefully chosen without being pedantic. 
Then the power of the man! He had scarcely spoken 
a few sentences before it made itself felt. He was not 
only lucid, decided and original, but persuasive. He 
possessed that rare gift — valuable to a man in any 
walk of life, priceless to an orator — of personal influ- 
ence; he was not only in touch with his audience, he 
carried it along with him. 

Erin heard him at first with the same kind of 
artistic pleasure with which she would have listened 
to good music or fine poetry; but by-and-by it 
became clear to her that the views which Mark was 
actually expounding were identical with those advo- 
cated by the organs of his party. She could hear him 
speak of them without impatience; she could even 
bear to see how he roused and excited those who 
heard him. In some regards it was evident that he 
was not changed; still, if he were converted — as he 
had so plainly hinted last night — on the point she 
had most at heart, nothing else mattered. She did 
not, however, quite like the tone of light irony in 
which he alluded to some of his political opponents, 
or the manner in which he ridiculed and tore to pieces 
the theories advocated by them. 


^‘^TWIXT CUP AND LIPJ 


219 


The first part of his speech was concluded, and he 
paused for a moment, Erin watching him with a 
rapidly beating heart. Then he resumed: — 

‘‘With regard to the future, the first question which 
presents itself must necessarily be that of our attitude 
towards Ireland.’’ 

He paused again, and for a second his eyes met 
Erin’s eager and unconsciously entreating glance. 
He looked away immediately and went on. He was 
certainly paler than usual, and his face had assumed 
a set look, but his voice did not falter, nor his inten- 
tion waver; and soon all Erin’s hopes were ruthlessly 
shattered. He did not now, as before, speak lightly 
and sarcastically; but he stated his case with a direct- 
ness and decision that could not be mistaken. It 
seemed to Erin that he was pitiless. He discussed 
and dismissed the claims and hopes of Ireland in a 
few brief but pregnant sentences. He announced 
emphatically his intention of upholding the Union of 
the Empire by every means in his power, and enum- 
erated his reasons for the maintenance of this prin- 
ciple so- clearly, so persuasively, that Erin was mad- 
deningly conscious of the conviction which his words 
must carry to his hearers. 

By-and-by he turned to other matters, but she 
heard no more of what he said, though she still sat 
gazing at him with fascinated eyes. Ah, those eyes 
were open at last — she saw clearly what he was — a 
man of iron, of marble! She might, indeed, as well 
have attempted to mould iron or marble with those 
soft, eager little fingers of hers, as to make an im- 
pression on the fixed determination of this man! Oh, 


220 


'^’TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


what a fool she had been — what a blind fool! She 
understood all now — all his talk of love, and the 
power of love, and the changes which it might effect 
were meant to apply to her. It was she who was to 
change, who was to give up her convictions, to suffer 
her principles to be swept away. Good heavens! 
and in her innocence she had encouraged him to 
hope for this, the very words she had spoken last 
night had confirmed him in his fancied triumph. Oh, 
when would he have done speaking! When would 
he give her the opportunity of convincing him of his 
mistake! it was not tolerable that he should go on 
thinking for another hour, another moment, that she 
was a renegade, a deserter. She must be patient for 
a little while, of course; but when the time came, she 
would prove to him that women could have principles 
as well as men, that they could be as steadfast, as 
determined. She would show him that he was mis- 
taken in thinking that for his sake she would abandon 
her sacred cause. For his sake, forsooth! How 
secure he had been, he had not even been at the pains 
to disguise this confidence, he had almost told her to 
her face that she loved him. Love him! Love the 
enemy of her country! Oh, she would soon undeceive 
him. Let her have but five minutes to speak her 
mind, and then she would never look upon his face 
again. As she gazed at him now, a sudden passion of 
anger, of resentment, of something that was almost 
despair, came over her. She felt as if she hated its 
very beauty — she hated that airy, genial manner — 
it was hatred, surely hatred and loathing which made 
her suddenly feel she could not bear to look on it, that 


^^’TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


if she listened a moment longer to the tones of that 
sweet and penetrating voice she would go mad. She 
rose, intending to hasten from the place, but a sudden 
dimness came before her eyes, Mark’s voice seemed 
to boom in her ears; she swayed, and would have 
fallen, but that Joan caught her; she had fainted. 

When she came to herself, she was lying on the 
grass in the school garden; Lady Tweedale and Joan 
were bending over her, and some one was supporting 
her head. After a moment or two she became con- 
scious of the identity of this some one, and struggled 
into a sitting posture. 

“ You had better go back and finish your speech,” 
she said, turning towards him eyes which, for all their 
fierceness, looked pathetic in her white face. 

'' I have* finished my speech,” returned Mark. I 
will go back presently; you must let me take you 
home first.” 

“ Joan will take me home. I would rather you did 
not come. I can walk quite well; I am all right now. 
It was only the heat,” she added defiantly. 

Mark said nothing, but assisted her to rise; then, 
seeing how weak and trembling she still was, he drew 
her hand quietly through his arm. 

'' Walk on the other side, Joan,” he said. ‘‘ I think 
it is better for me to come with you — you will get 
home more quickly.” Not choosing to take Joan into 
the secret by provoking an explanation then and 
there, Erin submitted, and the little party moved 
slowly on. Lady Tweedale bringing up the rear, 
lamenting, and endeavoring to assign a cause for 
Erin’s indisposition. 


222 


’TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


Erin was absolutely silent. She was annoyed at 
being obliged to accept Mark’s assistance, and still 
more annoyed with herself for being so much agitated 
by his proximity. It was, however, some small com- 
fort to her to realize, as in some indefinable way she 
did, that he was as much agitated as she. As they 
paced along side by side, there came a sudden poig- 
nant recollection that only a short time ago she had 
found his companionship sweet, she had counted on 
the lifelong support of that strong arm, she had longed 
for the moment when she should put her hand 
trustingly into that which now hung so limp and 
unexpectant! And now the parting must come — 
absolute and for ever. 

He left her when they reached the house, and Joan 
escorted her upstairs to her own room, while Lady 
Tweedale hurried away to give directions for her well- 
being. Joan contemplated her for a moment after she 
had lain down on her bed, and then bent over her. 

Erin, what is it? I cannot bear to see you look 
like that. It isn’t the heat, of course. You are angry 
with Mark. You didn’t like his speech? ” 

How could I like his speech?” returned Erin. 

Oh, Joan — there, don’t let us talk about it. You 
could never understand what I feel.” 

''But, my darling child,” expostulated Joan, sitting 
down on the bed beside her, and opening her eyes 
very wide, " what could you expect? On these occa- 
sions, Mark is bound to say what he thinks right, and 
I assure you he — he really was very moderate to-day. 
Really and truly, Erin, he said as little as he possibly 
could — just because you were there,” 


^^’TIVIXT CUP and LIPP 


223 


''How kind of him!” remarked Erin; and then she 
closed her eyes and refused to say another word until 
Lady Tweedale came in. By-and-by, when the two 
had withdrawn and she was left in the solitude for 
which she craved, she tried to realize the full extent 
of the calamity which had befallen her. She did not 
hate Mark Wimbourne; the quarter of an hour’s walk 
from the school to the house had convinced her of 
the fact that she loved him only too well. Surely no 
greater misfortune could have befallen her. To love 
a man with her whole heart, — to feel that life without 
him would be absolutely blank and savorless, and 
yet to know that between them was an impassable 
barrier. She had deluded herself with the idea that 
Mark would of himself remove this barrier! Well, he 
had to-day shown her unmistakably how utterly vain 
v\’as the hope. He stood on the other side with folded 
arms and invited her to come over. That was his 
attitude. How was it that she had not seen it? "What 
could you expect?” Joan had asked. What, indeed! 
Knowing the man as she did, how had she failed to 
realize that it was useless to look for concessions from 
him? She had given her heart away, placed all her 
hopes of happiness in the most impossible quarter. 
Meanwhile, Mark was no doubt quite unconscious of 
her anguish ; he must, indeed, in some measure realize 
that his speech had caused her pain — had he not in 
truth endeavored to avert it by requesting her to 
stay away? But she was quite convinced that he was 
confident of her unshaken affection, her ultimate 
submission to his will. The affection, alas, was still 
there — she was not of those who bestow or withdraw 


224 


‘^’TWIXT CUP AND LIP: 


their love easily — but the submission! On this he 
had reckoned somewhat rashly. He would find him- 
self mistaken in his calculations. Oh, she must have 
an end of it all, and quickly. She would be better 
able to face her life when the misunderstanding was 
cleared up, the words, which must irrevocably part 
them, spoken. 

After an hour’s fevered tossing on her pillows she 
sent for Joan. 

''Has everybody gone away?” she asked, sitting 
up and looking at Joan with an expression that 
startled her. "Where is Mr. Wimbourne?” 

" Thank heaven, they are all gone, and Mark is 
enjoying a quiet cigarette in the garden. How 
shockingly ill you look, Erin! Do lie down and rest 
till dinner-time.” 

Erin had got off the bed, and was beginning with 
hasty, trembling hands to arrange her dress. 

" I can’t rest. I want you to do something for me 
Joan. I want you to take me to some room where 
I am certain of being undisturbed, and tell your 
cousin, Mr. Wimbourne, that I want to see him 
there.” 

"Erin, Erin,” cried Joan, throwing her arms round 
her, and kissing her hot cheeks, " do not take every- 
thing so grievously to heart! What a state you have 
worked yourself into over these few words of Mark’s! 
Indeed, I shan’t let you see him — you are not fit for 
it. Surely his scolding will keep till another day! ” 

" I will see him,” cried Erin, with a little stamp of 
the foot. " If you won’t do as I ask, I shall go out 
into the garden and make him. come into the woods 


'TWIXT CUP AND LIP/’ 


225 


with me; but I would much rather see him in the 
house, because when I have said what I want to say, 
I can go away at once.” 

“ Well, well,” agreed Joan, “ you must have your 
own way, I suppose — but don't excite yourself too 
much. There is the old school-room — nobody ever 
goes there except me; you will have it all to your- 
selves. You know, at the top of the flight of steps 
near the greenroom. If you can find your way there, 
I will fetch Mark.” 

In another moment or two Erin was in possess!., n 
of the room alluded to; she never entered it after- 
wards without a kind of horror. And yet, it was a 
cheery little place, bright with flowers, and with a 
bird cage in the window. As Erin stood waiting, the 
sound of the little bird's claws, as he hopped from 
perch to perch, grated upon her over-w:ought nerves; 
she flung a cloth over the cage fiercely, desiring the 
astonished little creature to be still. 

Presently she heard Mark's steps on the stairs 
without, and her heart beat so violently that she felt 
as though it must suffocate her. She composed her- 
self, however, and looked steadily at him as he 
entered. He was a little grave, but otherwise looked 
much as usual. 

She was standing by the window, one hand rest- 
ing on the sill. Mark drew near and placed himself 
opposite her. 

'' I am glad you sent for me,” he began; '' I have a 
great deal to say to you. First of all, I want to tell 
you how grieved I am that any words of mine should 
cause you pain. I feared that what I had to say this 


226 


’TWIXT CUP AND UP: 


afternoon might hurt you, and you know I wanted 
you not to come 

''Most considerate of you,’’ interrupted Erin. She 
was glad that he inaugurated matters thus, glad to be 
able to feel angry with him. She paused a moment, 
and then went on, " There has been a mistake, a mis- 
understanding, — but it can be cleared up in a few 
minutes. It is not the accident of my hearing what 
you had to> say this afternoon that is of importance, 
but the fact of the attitude indicated by your words.” 

" Surely,” he said, very quietly and seriously, " you 
were always aware of that attitude. Though we have 
not — quarrelled so much of late — ” with an almost 
caressing emphasis on the word — " my opinions were 
perfectly known to you.” 

The color rushed to Erin’s face, but she looked at 
him fearlessly. It was better to be explicit, let it cost 
her what it might. 

" I was in hopes,” she said, " that of late you had 
changed. You have been so different — and last night 
when we were talking, I thought you — you intended 

me to understand ” She broke off suddenly, and 

turned away her head. " I see my mistake now,” she 
added hastily. 

"It was a mistake,” he said gently. "I, too, have 
been mistaken. I hoped that you might be won 
round to my way of thinking.” He paused, seeing 
her lip quiver, and guessing that it was painful to her 
to be reminded of the unconscious encouragement 
which she had given to this hope. " In fact,” he went 
on, " we have both been at cross purposes! But never 
mind — let us clear up the misunderstanding now — 


^TWIXT CUP AND LIP/' 


227 


let us both speak out our minds plainly; what I have 
been trying to convey to you lately, and particularly 
last night, is the fact that I love you/’ 

He paused a moment, his face wonderfully soft, and 
yet wearing a smile, half gay, half tender. 

''Now, I did not want to love you — I was preju- 
diced against you; everything about you — yes, I will 
own it frankly, was antagonistic to my ideas. You 
have none of the qualifications which I conceived 
essential to my future helpmate, you will in no way 
fit the place I had marked out for that hypothetical 
personage. But you are the only woman in the world 
for me — I love you, and I cannot do without you.” 

He stooped as he spoke, till his eyes were on a level 
with hers, his face was alight, eager, ardent. 

" I am not the man you would have chosen, I 
know,” he went on, as she did not speak; " and yet, 
my sweet, I think you love me! We are both the 
victims of fate — let us make the best of it.” 

Erin drew back, forcing herself to look steadily at 
him; it was harder, much harder, than she had ex- 
pected, to be stern and ruthless when he spoke thus. 
Her anger had melted away. She did not even feel 
humiliated by his assurance. 

" I don’t think you quite understand what you pro- 
pose,” she said at length. "A union between us is out 
of the question; it — it is simply impossible. We are 
as much apart as the poles. It would be misery.” 

"No, no,” said Mark, still undamped; "you are 
wrong, it would be very great happiness. I do not 
say that we should agree — on the contrary, we should 
quarrel perpetually — I am quite prepared for that! 


228 


’TWIXT CUP AND LIPJ 


But we should make it up, Erin, and the makings up 
would be sweeter than the quarrels. You would drive 
me mad a dozen times a day; but I would rather be 
maddened by you than soothed by any other woman."' 

'‘Oh, what folly,’" cried Erin, passionately — “do you 
not see that it is folly? How could you love me if I 
drove you mad? How could I love you, knowing that 
the aim of your life would be to make war against all 
that I hold dear — to overthrow what I would set up. 
You have this day declared yourself the enemy of my 
country — how could I love you? ” 

" In theory, indeed, it sounds impossible,” returned 
Mark; “ but the fact remains the same — you do love 
me. Come, let us make a compact — let us agree to 
differ. You shall go your way — you shall manage 
your own affairs, and make ducks and drakes of your 
own property — ah, you do not know how much I 
object to that property of yours! But I have no 
doubt that you will get rid of it all in time. Then, can 
you not make up your mind to take me as I am — to 
let me follow my own wrong-headed line, and do what 
I, in my misguided way, think to be my duty? ” 

Despite the characteristic note of banter in his tone, 
it was so persuasive, so winning, that Erin could not 
resent it. Moreover, there was that in face and 
manner which conveyed to her the consciousness of 
the depth and reality of his passion. But she rallied 
her strength of will and answered firmly: 

“ I will not deny that I love you, and that it will 
make me very unhappy to part from you; but I should 
be far, far more unhappy as your wife, feeling as I do. 
Besides,” she added, with gathering heat, “ I should 


’TWIXT CUP AND UP: 


229 


think it dishonorable to take the name of one who 
is pledged as you are, to associate myself with you, 
to be identified with you. I should feel in a way 
perjured. No, it is useless to dream of it. Marriage 
between us two would only be possible if one of us 
yielded.’^ 

‘'And it would be quite impossible for you to 
yield?'' he queried, speaking very quietly. ‘‘You 
prefer to spoil both our lives. And yet, Erin, what is 
it that keeps us apart? Is it not, after all, a fancied 
barrier? You are sacrificing yourself and me to a 
mere prejudice, an idea. My dear child," insensibly 
assuming his customary airy tone — a tone oddly at 
variance with the expression of his face — “do you 
suppose it rests with me to make or mar your coun- 
try? Remember, I am but a unit. I have pledged 
myself to maintain certain principles, and I must stand 
firm to what I believe to be right; but, I assure you, 
you attach more importance to my personal action 
than is at all necessary." 

“ It is enough for me to know that you use what 
power you have against us," cried Erin, vehemently. 
“ You will have more power by-and-by — every one 
says you will. But it is not merely that, there is a 
personal feeling, too — how could I bear to think that 
my husband was my antagonist? Is it not a farce to 
talk about not interfering with me? How do you 
suppose I could be happy, knowing that you were 
opposed to all my aims — feeling that — that you 
disapproved " 

She broke off suddenly, for the expression of 
Mark's face startled her. He was, indeed, so much 


230 


*TWIXT CUP AND LIPJ 


moved by this naive indication of her feelings, this 
unconscious confession of her susceptibility to his 
influence, that he with difficulty withstood the temp- 
tation to gather her in his arms there and then. 

In a moment the thought came to her that her 
weakness might also be her strength. Her last words 
had made more impression on Mark than anything 
she had yet said. She suddenly stretched out her 
hands to him, looking in his face with desperate 
appeal — 

‘‘ Oh, Mark, why should you not yield, if you really 
love me as you say? You cannot feel as I do! ’’ 

He had caught her hands, but now he let them go. 

''After all,” he exclaimed, with a little proud toss 
of the head, " there is such a thing as honor! ” 

" Well, then, nothing remains for us but to part,” 
cried Erin, bitterly. 

She felt as if her heart were bursting within her, 
but she would not stoop to plead further. 

" So be it,” said he, coldly; and turning, went out 
of the room without another glance at her. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MISCHIEF. 

T7 RIN was so much upset by the events just de- 
scribed and, moreover, her presence at Flete- 
wood just then was so exceedingly awkward, that 
Lady Tweedale yielded to her entreaties for permis- 
sion to pay a visit to Ireland. Both Sir Edward and 
Lady Tweedale were feeling a little hurt with Erin, a 
little aggrieved at her unexpected rejection of their 
nephew. Mark did not talk about it — that was not 
his way; but Lady Tweedale was sure he was very 
much cut up. Joan, of course, took Erin’s part — she 
always did; but even she was sorry and surprised. 
The actual condition of affairs required Mark’s con- 
stant presence at Fletewood, which was necessarily 
his headquarters during his political campaign. After 
what had happened, it was, of course, difficult and 
painful for him to meet Erin; therefore, when the 
girl proposed to pay a long-promised visit to Mrs. 
Riley, Lady Tweedale acquiesced. 

That that lady received her with rapture, it need not 
be said. Moll Riddick, who since Father Lalor’s death 
had entered his sister’s service, vied with her mistress 
in the warmth of her welcome. In spite of the pain at 
her heart it was sweet to Erin to be with them. But 
after a few days’ residence at Ballinagall, Erin, in spite 


231 


232 


MISCHIEF. 


of her efforts to interest herself as of old in the homely 
life around her, insensibly fell back into that state of 
apathy which had taken possession of her since her 
rupture with Mark. Perhaps it could scarcely be 
termed apathy, for though she felt languid and listless 
enough, as regarded all that went on around her, she 
was nevertheless conscious of an inward yearning, 
vivid and keen, for Mark’s presence. The words 
which he had once laughingly spoken to her, often 
recurred to her now — Do you know what it is to be 
tyrannized over by an idea?” She had scouted the 
notion then, condemning the weakness which could 
submit to such tyranny; but she knew better now. 
She, herself, was pursued and dominated by an idea — 
the remembrance of Mark Wimbourne, the longing 
to see his face, to hear his voice. She did her best to 
conquer herself, to repulse the thought as often as it 
came; but there was scarcely a moment in the day 
when it did not come, and at night she dreamed of him. 
She must do something, she said to herself at last, to 
rid herself of this incubus — where were her old 
dreams, her high resolves? Surely work would best 
exorcise this disturbing spirit, and here she was actu- 
ally in Ireland, Ireland for whom she had sworn to 
labor. She must rouse herself — she must begin to 
look about her, to find out that work which must lie 
ready to her hand. 

With this determination she asked Mrs. Riley to 
accompany her on an expedition to Glenmor. There, 
on the old spot, amid the familiar surroundings, she 
would surely find new strength, new energy. 

Good-natured Mrs. Riley readily agreed, merely 


MISCHIEF. 


233 


expressing the hope that Erin wouldn't go upsetting 
herself. 

'' You went through a great deal while you were 
there, my dear,” she continued. Your uncle w:.s 
dreadfully hard on you — however, maybe he wasYc 
accountable, poor gentleman! He knows better 
now — the Lord have mercy on him! All the 
people hill be delighted to see you, and it'll be new 
life to Martha.” 

When Erin found herself once more within the 
rickety gate, gazing through the fir-trees at the queer, 
old, dilapidated house, it seemed to her as though she 
had only gone away yesterday. Nothing was changed 
— for the moment she felt as if she herself were un- 
changed. Martha came hurrying down the path to 
meet them, lean and gaunt as ever, less exuberant in 
her welcome than Mrs. Riley and Moll had been, but 
to the full as much overjoyed. She had prepared 
luncheon for them in the study, which looked as damp 
and dreary as ever, though perhaps a little less dusty, 
since Mr. Fitzgerald could no longer anathematize 
Martha's labors in the cause of cleanliness. 

Martha stood gazing at Erin with grim satisfaction 
during the progress of the meal, preserving a respect- 
ful demeanor throughout, however, and speaking 
only when she was spoken to. 

'' You know I am coming back to live here, Mar- 
tha,” remarked Erin, ‘‘ as soon as I am of age. We’ll 
get the old house done up and make it a little brighter, 
and you shall be my housekeeper.” 

Likely, I'm sure,” returned Martha, with good- 
humored irony. This would be a nice kind of place 


234 


MISCHIEF. 


for a young lady to bury herself in, and I’m getting 
too old and too stupid to be any good now.” 

'' Indeed, you’re not. You shall have a couple of 
girls from the village to help you. We’ll train them 
ourselves, and teach them all our little ways. And 
you’ll make me potato cakes for tea, won’t you, 
Martha? Do you remember how I used to love your 
potato cakes? ” 

''Ah, I do,” replied Martha, her face relaxing. 
" You was terrible fond of them. I thought o’ that. 
I’m goin’ to make ye some for tea this afternoon.” 

" That is good of you. But really, I am coming 
back, you know, Martha, as soon as I am twenty- 
one — only two years and a half more! ” 

She repeated this assurance many times during the 
course of the day, and was surprised and wounded at 
the incredulity with which it was everywhere received. 

Mrs, Riley was rather tired, and Erin had per- 
suaded her to rest in the house, while she set forth in 
her progress among her people. 

They greeted her for the most part politely, 
admiringly, but a little coldly; displaying, indeed, a 
reserve as regarded their own affairs, which not only 
puzzled and baffled, but hurt her to the heart’s core. 

" I suppose I am quite a stranger to you now,” she 
remarked to Mrs. Hoolahan, who had received her 
more cordially than the rest; " but I haven’t changed 
a bit. Don’t you remember how I used to come and 
sit here on your little creepy-stool, and nurse the 
baby? I suppose the baby is a big boy now.” 

"He is indeed, God bless him! — he is grown a 
fine little fella — Larry, come liere and spake to the 


MISCHIEF. 


235 


lady. Ah, ye oughtn’t to be kissin’ him that way, 
miss. Look at his dirty face. He’s a rogue entirely, 
miss — he’ll whip off down the road as soon as me 
back’s turned, and go playing in the ditch with the 
other boys. I buried two since, miss,” she added in 
a lower tone. 

''Oh, did you, Mrs. Hoolahan? I didn’t know. 
Nobody ever told me. I am so sorry! ” 

"You were so far away, miss, ye see,” returned the 
woman; " it wasn’t to be expected you could be 
thinkin’ of us, and you all that way off. Ah, indeed, 
Tim and meself has put in a terrible time this two 
year. We were a bit behind every way, ye know, 
and Tim is afeared of his life he’ll be gettin’ notice to 
quit before long. Maybe ye ’ud think well o’ lowerin’ 
the rent a thrifle, miss, and lettin’ us off the March 
gale?” 

Her face was wistful and eager; one or two of the 
elder children drew near to listen, open-mouthed. 

"What can I do?” returned Erin, almost with 
tears in her voice. " I have written several times to 
the agent about things like this, but he does not pay 
any attention to what I say! ” 

The hope died out on Mrs. Hoolahan’s face, and 
she looked at Erin for a moment without speaking; 
then she called to the children to come away out of 
that, and not be botherin’ the lady. 

" I’m sure, miss,” she added, turning to Erin, " it’s 
too good you are to be noticin’ them at all. I ax 
your pardon for makin’ free the way I done, but when 
ye began talkin’ of ould times, I thought I’d just 
mention it. Tim was thinkin’, ye know, when he 


236 


MISCHIEF. 


h’ard ye was the landlord, that we'd maybe be let off 
a bit aisier now — he was romancin' that way, ye 
know. Says he, ‘ Miss Erin's no grab-all,’ says he — 
savin' yer presence. That's the very word he said." 

“ Mrs. Hoolahan," said Erin, earnestly, '' I assure 
you I am not allowed to manage anything now, or to 
interfere in any way. I am treated just like a child. 
But it won't always be so. When I am twenty-one 
I shall be my own mistress, and then I shall do what 
I like, and you will all find things very different. We 
must be patient for a little while — it won't be long 
now, only two years and a few months." 

''Two years!" repeated Mrs. Hoolahan, drearily. 
" God bless us, sure Tim an me'll be out of it long 
before that." 

What could Erin do? It was in vain to protest 
and promise; none of her former cronies believed her. 
Even when she emptied her purse among them, and 
actually went so far as to promise to supply certain 
tenants under notice to quit with the necessary funds 
for paying the arrears of rent due, the result was not 
so satisfactory as she had hoped. After all, it was 
only taking money out of one pocket to put it into 
another. The people were quite astute enough to 
realize the fact, though they could not be expected 
to understand the peculiarity of her position. They 
were, therefore, only moderately grateful. 

" I’m thinkin'. Miss Erin, ye're wan of the rale 
ould stock," cried one old man, " the very moral o' 
your grandfather, ye are. Sure, I remember him well. 
He'd give ye the coat off his back if he saw ye in 
trouble. The sayin' went, that if ye could get next 


MISCHIEF. 


237 


or nigh the master he’d deny ye nothin’! But sure 
there wasn’t many of us that got the chanst — he was 
a grand sportsman entirely, and he’d be of? drivin’ 
his coach here and there, and entertainin’ his friends 
all over the counthry, and that’s the way the most 
of the money went. The land was sold over our 
heads — in the end. Ay, he was a good gentleman, a 
fine man — the Lord have mercy on him! — but his 
agent was a cruel man. He had us rack-rented 
altogether.” 

'' My grandfather ought to have seen that his 
tenants were properly treated,” cried Erin, hotly. 
'' He ought to have looked after his affairs himself. 
I don’t want you to think me like him,” she added, 
almost petulantly. 

The bystanders, with characteristic regard for cour- 
tesy and good manners, refrained from smiling and 
glancing at each other. A few of them hastened to 
assure her that “Ould Dinny Kinsella wasn’t meanin’ 
that — of coorse not. vSure, them ould ancient times 
was gone. Miss Erin had no call to be thinkin’ them 
things.” 

'' I know,” pursued Erin, hotly, that because I 
live in England, and have to let an agent collect the 
rents, you think I don’t care about you any more. 
You think I am just going to take your money and 
amuse myself, and forget all about you.” 

It was exactly what they did think, but their 
disclaimers were prompt and fervent. 

'' How can I make you believe,” she cried, looking 
imploringly round, '' that I — I would rather die than 
treat you like that? I am coming back, as soon as 


238 


MISCHIEF, 


ever I can, to be among you. I will live at Glenmor, 
and look after everything myself. All the rents shall 
be lowered, and all the arrears wiped out; and Til 
repair your houses, and build you stables and 
barns ” 

'' Sure, that'll be grand," remarked somebody, with 
a feeble attempt at enthusiasm. Bedad, we won’t 
know ourselves," cried another. All were anxious to 
humor her, being genuinely touched by her distress; 
but, as has been said, it was only too evident to Erin 
that no one gave credence to her promises. 

''An' when will ye be coming, miss?" inquired 
some one, presently. 

" When I am of age," replied Erin, proceeding to 
explain, for the twentieth time, how very soon that 
would be. " Only a little more than two^yeays." 

Two years! How many of that little crowd would 
still be there in two years — how much might happen 
in two years! In two years, above all, Erin would 
have ample time to forget her pledges. 

" Well, God bless you for the word, miss," one 
man said, with a somewhat rueful smile. " Sure, if 
ye don't do anything else, ye say somethin’ pleasant 
to us, anyway." 

Erin choked down a sob as she walked away from 
them. What a miserable fate was hers — what a 
horrible disparity between her purposes and her cir- 
cumstances. They did not believe her — her friends, 
her people, doubted her sincerity. Well, appearances 
certainly were against her. But it was hard to feel 
one's self an anomaly. She made her way, half blinded 
by tears, to the Nolans' ruined house. All these years 


MISCHIEF. 


239 


it had Iain under a ban. It had crumbled into still 
greater decay since Erin had last looked upon it. The 
bare rafters had mouldered and grown rotten; the 
little windows were choked with cobwebs; the garden, 
which had once been Mary’s pride, was now a mere 
tangle of weeds. 

Erin leaned her arms on the broken gate and 
gazed at the desolate premises. Some day — some 
day, when the reins of power were at length in her 
hands — what a transformation would she not work 
here! She would rebuild the house and restore the 
garden, and Mary, dear Mary, should come back. 
With the Nolans’ return, Erin’s reign should com- 
mence. This return had been long planned and 
cherished — she had even spoken of it to Mary in 
her letters; and Mary had thanked and blessed her 
with affectionate warmth, and said that God knew 
she would be glad to be back in the dear little place, 
but just at the present time she saw no prospect of it. 
Pat seemed to have settled down where he was, and 
was doing very well, thanks be to God! and there was 
some talk of Bridget getting married. And Patsy 
was after getting a grand place, with a prospect of 
being taken into business. But, please God, before 
she died, Mary would see her darling Mis^s Erin again. 
This was a little ambiguous — a little disheartening; 
but she would not suffer herself to be wholly dis- 
couraged. Mary would come when the house was 
built and ready to receive her and her family; Bridget 
and her husband could come, too, if that was all. Erin 
would find them work to do and a home to live in — 
as for Pat, junior, she was rich enough to bear the 


240 


MISCHIEF. 


expenses of an occasional visit to his parents. As 
Erin looked about her, however, these dreams of 
better times to come gave place to the sinister remem- 
brance of the tragedy which had been enacted here in 
the past. This tenantless house, which no one had 
hitherto sought to repair, because any fresh inmate 
would consider himself accursed in taking the place 
of its former owners, was it not a grim and melan- 
choly protest against the existing condition of things? 
On that moss-grown doorstep Erin had crouched, 
with her childish heart bursting within her, her whole 
soul aflame with indignation. What vows had she 
not there registered! What resolutions had she not 
formed! Impotent, indeed, had she been in those 
days, and impotent was .she still. Her nearest and 
dearest looked upon her with dubious eyes — so far, 
she had done nothing to prove that the pledges of 
those early times were not idle. They would shortly 
be redeemed; but, meanwhile, how should she endure 
the doubts and disappointment of the people whom 
she had sworn to assist and protect? There must be 
work that she could undertake even now; there must 
be some corner of this troubled land which would 
afford scope to her sympathies and energies. 

She made her way back to Glenmor slowly, and 
was very silent and thoughtful during tea. During 
their homeward journey in the train she studied the 
evening paper carefully, and her eye was caught by 
an announcement in large type: 

''Impending wholesale evictions in the Northwest.” 

Holding the paper close to her eyes in the fading 
light, she read an account, couched in fiery terms, of 


MISCHIEF. 


241 


the troubles of the population of a certain barren, 
mountainous district, the name of which was duly 
given. For many years, it seemed, a continuous 
struggle had been going on between the people and 
their landlord. Aggression, said the paper, had been 
followed by reprisal; rapacity had stirred up revolt. 
Of late, the relations had become more and more 
strained; certain renegades had been boycotted, and 
an obnoxious bailiff severely beaten. The landlord 
had announced his determination of putting an end 
to this state of things. At an early date, those whom 
he had looked upon as ringleaders were to be evicted; 
and if quiet were not soon restored, he threatened to 
replace the malcontents by a new population more to 
his mind. The journal in which these facts were 
recorded, doubted, however, whether the landlord 
would find this plan altogether profitable. There 
might be some difficulty in beguiling a new body of 
tenantry into that inaccessible, God-forsaken spot; 
and the fate of the last inhabitants would not be 
likely to encourage others. But if it did not gratify 
his greed, he could, at least, glut his appetite for 
cruelty. More than a thousand souls would, in con- 
sequence of this act of savage vengeance, find them- 
selves homeless; aged and sickly folk, young children, 
men and women still in their prime, would be driven 
forth — some to die, others to seek in vain some 
outlet for their energies. Could it be wondered, the 
writer added, that these energies — the energies of 
desperate men — should sometimes be forced into 
channels deplorable for themselves, and dangerous to 
the community at large? That the projected work of 


242 


MISCHIEF. 


devastation would be carried out in its entirety, no 
one could doubt. The evictions already decided on 
would, of necessity, be followed by many others. 
These drastic measures were not likely to restore 
peace and order among a people already irritated 
beyond endurance. How could these hapless suf- 
ferers be expected to remain quiet in their misery? 
As well unmercifully thrash a horse and expect it to 
stand still. If a few regrettable acts of violence had 
indeed been committed, surely it was unjust to hold 
a whole district responsible. It was from the seed of 
injustice that crops of outrages sprang forth. 

Erin crumpled up the paper in her hand; her heart 
was beating, and her eyes flashing. More than a 
thousand souls! Once happy in their little homes, 
their simple employments; now doomed to be out- 
casts, houseless wanderers over the barren hillside! 
More than a thousand souls! Why did they not 
make a stand? Why, instead of the wild and horrible 
deeds b}^ which they gave vent to their desperation, 
did they not oppose a calm and resolute opposition 
to those who would drive them from their homes? 
Here and there over the country there had been, 
indeed, already feeble attempts at resistance. The 
inhabitants of a few thatched cottages — a dozen or 
so, perhaps, at a time — had endea.vored to barricade 
their wretched dwellings, and had been driven out 
like vermin. This time; the destruction was to be 
worked on a large scale, and the resistance should be 
in proportion. If a thousand people main'ained, 
simultaneously, a brave front, if they showed a steady 
determination to cleave to hearth and home while life 


MISCHIEF. 


243 


remained, to fight for hearth and home, if need be, 
their antagonists would, at least, be over-awed. 

Not for nothing was Erin the daughter of the man 
who had marshalled a company in ’48, and of the 
peasant girl whose ancestors had revelled in many a 
faction fight. She was excited and over-wrought, all 
her old feelings of wrath and indignation roused afresh 
by her visit to Glenmor; moreover, the impetuous 
desire to do something in the service of the cause she 
had at heart, to prove herself ready and willing to 
maintain the principles she had so constantly avowed, 
at all cost and hazard to herself, made her resolve on 
taking a decided step. Before she slept that night, 
she had written an impassioned appeal, directed par- 
ticularly to the inhabitants of the doomed district, and 
generally to Irishmen at large, calling upon them to 
be true to themselves, and true to the traditions of 
their forefathers; advocating in veiled, but unmis- 
takable terms, a resolute opposition to injustice and 
tyranny, and recounting the victories won for the 
people, even in recent times, by a show of force and 
determination. 

'' The thousand victims of oppression at 

she wrote, '' have thousands more at their backs, and 
these, in turn, have sympathizers too numerous to be 
counted. Countrymen, do you realize what strength 
is there, what power is there? With courage, with 
boldness, with steady resistance, we may teach a lesson 

to all would-be tyrants; the peasants of may 

indeed be held up as an example to the nation, 
but in a manner different to that intended by their 
persecutors.’' 


244 


MISCHIEF. 


She inclosed this document in a letter to the editor 
of the paper which contained an announcement of the 
impending evictions, begging him to insert it, and 
giving him her full name and address. 

Little did innocent Mick, as he jogged cheerfully 
to “ town next morning*, astride on Paddy’s back — 
or rather, perched on Paddy’s hindquarters, in the 
closest proximity to his tail — think what a dangerous 
missive was that which Erin had intrusted him to 
post for her. As well, indeed, might he have carried 
a bomb in the battered leather bag, which apparent!}^ 
flapped so aimlessly over his shoulder! 

She did not expect an answer, but in time an answer 
came. Her appeal had duly appeared in the pages of 
the journal to which she had addressed it; and this 
letter, sent on by the editor, came from one of the 
villages marked out for depopulation. The writer 
was evidently illiterate, but the sentiments he set forth 
warmed and rejoiced Erin’s heart. He expressed his 
gratitude for her advice and sympathy, and wished 
there were more like her in Ireland, which would not 
then be so unfortunate. Dear Sir,” the writer 
added — he had addressed Erin throughout as Dear 
Sir,” a fact which caused her unmixed satisfaction — 
'' if you could come to this place and see for yourself 
the way we are, you wouldnT believe it. But the 
people hereabouts doesn’t know what they’d best 
do — their mostly very quite, but some of them is 
near druv wild. It would break your heart to see the 
way they do be going on. If you could come here, 
I could tell you a great many things, and it would be 
worth yer while.” 


MISCHIEF. 


245 


Here was a chance for Erin! Here was work — 
Heaven sent, no doubt — for those weary, idle hands 
of hers! The appeal should have an immediate 
response — how could she disregard it? It was quite 
true the writer took her to be a man: the boldness of 
her sentiments had caused this natural mistake — but 
what of that? Women had, before now, taken their 
share in national affairs in Ireland; it might be that 
on this occasion a woman’s intuition and nimbleness 
of wit would be of especial value. She would go up 
to the stricken hillside — there she would be able at 
least to do some good, even if no decisive step were 
taken under her auspices. 

Mrs. Riley was much astonished when Erin an- 
nounced her intention of undertaking a journey to 
the North. 

‘'Why, what in the name of goodness do you want 
to do up there?” she cried, raising her eyes and hands 
in amazement. 

“ They are all in trouble up there. That’s why I 
want to go. I want to see what goes on, and to help 
the poor people.” 

“ Sure, ye can send them tea and flannel petti - 
coats — the creatures! — from here. Goodness knov/s 

what a sort of a place it is at all. Up in the hills, 

d’3^e say? They’re the dreariest, black, stony hills ever 
you saw. I don’t like the notion at all. And good- 
ness knows what sort of a place we’ll find to stop in ! 
Ah, child o’ grace, stay quiet here with me — sure, 
we are just about beginning cutting our corn — the 
boys ’ull be up to their tricks, and no mistake, if I’m 
not in it to look after them! ” 


246 


MISCHIEF. 


'' Oh, Mrs. Riley, I didn’t expect you to come,"^ 
stammered Erin. ‘‘ I know you are busy.” 

''And who did you expect to go with you, then? 
The pin-sticker, as Moll calls your maid? Upon me 
word she’d be very useful up there.” 

" No^ I certainly shan’t take her — I’ll send her 
home, I think. I’ll explain to Lady Tweedale — I 
thought, perhaps, I might go alone.” 

The step on which Erin was bent was so bold, its 
consequences would be, in all probability, so weighty, 
that she felt herself in a manner absolved from the 
necessity of guardianship. She was about to cut her- 
self free from all trammels; she was about, for once, 
to act entirely on her own responsibility, to follow the 
line of conduct which seemed to her best; the mere 
planning of her course of action made her feel already 
independent. 

But Mrs. Riley, not being taken into Erin’s con- 
fidence, naturally did not see things in the same 
light. Her ruddy face turned ruddier than ever, and 
putting on her spectacles, she looked steadily and 
indignantly at the girl. 

"Go alone! What in the wide world are you 
thinking of? If you are tired of the old woman, 
say so. You can go back to your grand friends in 
England, of course, if you want to — and, indeed, 
there’s not much to amuse you here, my poor child. 
But while you are in Ireland, Erin, my dear, you’ll 
have to put up with me. Where you go, I go — crops 
or no crops! ” added Mrs. Riley, firmly. " I wonder 
what my poor brother would have said to the notion 
of your travelling the country by yourself! ” 


MISCHIEF. 


247 


Erin made her peace with her kind old friend with 
many embraces and apologies. No course remained 
to her but either to welcome her companionship, or to 
relinquish the expedition; the last was not to be 
thought of. So, as soon as the needful preparations 
could be made, Erin and her puzzled and reluctant 
cicerone started northwards, and Miss Jennings, 
shaking the dust of Ballinagall from her feet, set 
forth on her return journey to her native land. 


CHAPTER X. 


A RESCUING PARTY. 

J HAVE just had the most extraordinary letter 
from Erin/’ remarked Lady Tweedale. ‘‘ She 
writes from some place with an utterly unpronounce- 
able name — it begins with a ‘ K ’ — and ends with 
' ogue/ but I really can’t make out the rest. She 
says she has sent away poor Jennings — which I think 
isn’t at all nice of her. No, Joan, it really isn’t. The 
only request I did make of Erin was that she would 
take a person with her whom I knew something 
about, and on whom I could rely.” 

''Well, you know, mamma, Erin told us last week 
that Jennings gave notice directly she got to Ballina- 
gall.” 

" I don’t wonder at it,” resumed Lady Tweedale. 
" Erin herself says it is only a farmhouse, and I don’t 
see how Jennings could be expected to like living in 
a farmhouse. But just listen, Edward — she writes 
in the oddest way: — 'You’ll be surprised to hear that 
I have left Ballinagall for a time, and am now staying 
at a place called — well, the word with the unpro- 
nounceable name. I came here because I heard of 
the distress and misery of the place, and thought per- 
haps I might help the poor people in their trouble.’ ” 

" She is a good little thing, I must say that,” cried 


24S 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


249 


Sir Edward, looking up from his bacon and eggs. 
'' She is good-natured if she isn’t very wise.” 

Joan glanced at her father with quick gratitude for 
this unexpected tribute, but Lady Tweedale retained 
her expression of severe disapproval. She certainly 
does not appear to be acting very wisely at present,” 
she remarked. “ I only hope she won’t do anything 
outrageously foolish. Just listen: ^ The whole pop- 
ulation of this place expect to be evicted. I now see 
for myself things which I only knew by hearsay 
before. I have witnessed the results of a long system 
of injustice and rapacity. The ancestors of some of 
these people have not only built with their own hands 
the miserable dwellings which they are now called 
upon to give up, but carried from the valley below the 
very soil in which they grow their potatoes. It has 
l)een the labor of years, as you may think, to carry — 
for the most part in creels on their backs — load after 
load of earth up this stony hillside. What was for- 
merly a waste is now under cultivation, entirely 
through the patient toil of the poor creatures, whose 
descendants are to be driven away like a flock of 
sheep, to seek shelter where they may, amid these 
barren mountains! ’ ” 

Sir Edward laid down his knife and fork. 

''I don’t believe a word of it,” he remarked; 
“ they’ve been cramming her — telling her a pack of 
lies.”'^ 

Lady Tweedale laughed a little. ‘‘ She says she is 
quite sure that none of us will believe in this story, yet 
that it is absolutely true. Now listen, this is what 
makes me feel fidgety: ‘ Mrs. Riley is with me here. 


250 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


SO that I am well taken care of; but when I see the 
tragedies enacted around me, I feel impatient of being 
pampered and shielded from everything rough and 
disagreeable. These sufferers are my fellow-country- 
men, my own flesh and blood. When I am among 
them thus, I realize that I, too, am a child of the soil, 
a daughter of the people. I don’t feel as if I could 
ever settle down contentedly to a life of mere fine- 
ladyism. Dear friend, you have been wonderfully 
good to me, and I know I must seem to have ill-repaid 
your kindness. I know you will disapprove of what 
I am doing now, but I do not want to appear under- 
hand. All my sympathies are with the people. I feel 
just at present all kinds of instincts asserting them- 
selves within me. Do not be more angry than you 
can help, if you hear of my saying and doing things 
which seem to you unfeminine! ’ ■” 

'' Hullo! ” cried Sir Edward, ‘'what is she up to, 
d’ye suppose? I think I’ll just write and tell her to 
come back at once. I’m her guardian, after all — 
responsible to the Lord what’s-his-name. I shall be 
getting into hot water myself if we don’t look out. 
Look here, Adela, you’d better write to her,” pursued 
Sir Edward, who never did anything for himself that 
he could get other people to do for him. “ You write 
to her and tell her to come back at once, and write to 
that Riley woman too — tell her she ought to have 
looked after Erin better.” 

“Did she write to you, Joan?” inquired Lady 
Tweedale. 

“Yes,” returned the girl, who looked quite pale and 
agitated, “ she wrote very mmch in the same vein as 


A RESCUING PARTY, 


251 


in her letter to you. Til write to her, too — I’ll beg 
her to come back — I think perhaps she will when I 
ask her.’"' 

'' Well, it is really very awkward, you know,” re- 
turned her mother a little irritably. '' Dear Mark will 
have to come down next week — and then there’ll be 
the elections to think about soon. Oh, these Radi • 
cals,” groaned Lady Tweedale, how they do com- 
plicate life, to be sure! ” 

“Never mind whether sue likes it or not,” growled 
Sir Edward. “ She’ll have to submit. Really, you 
know, Adela, it’s very serious. Why the dickens 
couldn’t she marry Mark when he asked her? He’d 
have managed her — he’d have got all that nonsense 
out of her head.” 

“ It won’t be very pleasant for him, poor fellow, to 
find her here!” observed Lady Tweedale in melan- 
choly tones. “ It’s really very tiresome. But I sup- 
pose the poor, dear child can^'t help being odd and 
erratic,” she added, relenting. “ We must try and 
get her back; it would never do for her to be mixed 
up in the disturbances over there.” 

Later in the same day Lady Tweedale was still 
more agitated by a visit from Jennings, Erin’s late 
maid, who was staying with a sister in the neighbor- 
hood, while awaiting a new situation, and who con- 
sidered it her duty to offer a personal explanation to 
her ladyship as to her reasons for leaving Miss Fitz- 
gerald’s service. 

“From the very first moment we got to Ballinagall, 
my lady, I felt sure that I should never be able to stay. 
It wasn’t so much the people or the place that was 


252 


A RESCUING PARTY, 


different to what I’d been used to — which, of course, 
they was; but still, since your ladyship was so kind as 
to explain to me that I must be prepared to find them 
so, I shouldn’t have minded — but Miss Fitzgerald 
herself — ” Here Jennings coughed discreetly behind 
her hand. ''Well, I wouldn’t wish to complain of any 
friend of your ladyship’s, but still. Miss Fitzgerald’s 
ways was” — here Jennings paused and coughed 
again — "reelly most sing’lar. So short in her temper, 
my lady — and so excited-like. Sometimes she’d sit 
up half the night writin’ to the newspapers.” 

"Writing to the newspapers!” repeated Lady 
Tweedale, genuinely startled. "Are you sure, 
Jennings? What could she have been writing to 
the papers about? ” 

" I reelly don’t know, my lady; I used to sit up 
sometimes till midnight waiting for her bell. I saw 
the letters directed to Irish papers, my lady. And 
she’d get letters back from them again — I used to 
see the names on the envelopes. I found one paper in 
her room marked and I brought it for your ladyship 
to see. I thought you might perhaps blame me, my 
lady, for giving notice, as you’d been so kind as to 
arrange everything with me. But I couldn’t make 
myself 'appy.” 

"Very well, Jennings, perhaps it was a little diffi- 
cult,” returned Lady Tweedale, distantly. " You can 
give me the paper; I daresay it is nothing of any 
importance.” By an unlucky chance, it was the very 
paper containing Erin’s compromising appeal which 
Jennings used to substantiate her charges. Lady 
Tweedale’s eyes grew wide behind her gold-rimmed 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


253 


pince-nez as she read the sentiments therein set forth; 
and the oftener she perused them, the more convinced 
she became that they had been penned by no other 
hand than Erin’s. One can imagine the dismay and 
displeasure of the Tweedales at this discovery. Every- 
body wrote to Erin, even Sir Edward sent her a 
missive of six lines, expressing his surprise and 
displeasure, and ordering her to come home at once. 

Some few days elapsed before her reply came, and 
then it was most unsatisfactory. Erin wrote in the 
same excited strain as that which had characterized 
her last letter, but announced most positively her 
intention of remaining where she was. 

Mark had meanwhile arrived on the scene, and had 
been made acquainted with the state of affairs. He 
was present when Erin’s letter was read out, but made 
no comment, sitting drumming on the table, in ap- 
parent absence of mind, while the others exclaimed 
and lamented. 

'' Here is another letter, I see, from that awful 
place,’' cried Lady Tweedale, suddenly discovering it 
amid the pile yet unopened by her plate. ‘‘ It must 
be from Mrs. Riley — let us see what she has 
to say.” 

Mrs. Riley wrote dismally and urgently. She was 
quite prepared to be blamed for the turn affairs were 
taking. It was not to be expected that Sir Edward 
and Lady Tweedale could think anything but that she 
had had a hand in them. But what could she do? 
Erin would have gone by herself if she had not 
accompanied her. She was now getting beyond Mr^. 
Riley altogether, and that lady was afraid of her life 


254 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


she would be getting herself into serious trouble. She 
spent her day tearing about the hills, and speechifying 
to the poor distracted creatures who were about to be 
turned out. She would not listen to Mrs. Riley at all, 
and the latter was afraid that if she wasnh taken away 
before the evictions took place, something dreadful 
would happen. Only a few days remained now — 
would not somebody come at once and fetch her? 
That would be the only chance. Mrs. Riley pro- 
ceeded to give exact particulars of their whereabouts. 
It had been impossible to find accommodation in the 
village, which was to be the chief scene of events, and 
they were staying at a small farmhouse about a mile 
and a half away. 

The party round the Fletewo.od breakfast-table 
glanced at each other in blank dismay. 

You’ll have to go at once, my dear,” said Lady 
Tweedale at length. 

Now, Sir Edward was at all times exceedingly diffi- 
cult to get under way. His sturdy form an.d abrupt, 
determined manner conveyed the impression of great 
decision of character, but he was in reality one of the 
most helpless of men. He hated to be obliged to act 
on his own responsibility, or to be hurried into any 
important step — while the mere idea of taking a 
journey by himself, into an unknown region, appeared 
too utterly preposterous. 

Go where? — what for? — what are you talking 
about?” he growled, growing very red. ^H’ll do 
nothing of the kind. She is a naughty, obstinate little 
girl, and if she won’t come back when I tell her, she 
may stay where she is.” 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


255 


“ Well, really, Edward, I don’t see that I can be 
expected to travel off to the wilds of, of — wherever 
it is, and I suppose it will come to that,’’ responded 
Lady Tweedale, plaintively. You know I never can 
undertake long journeys in a hurry — I always like to 
travel by easy stages. But something must be done at 
once. You don’t want the child taken up, I suppose, 
and put in prison? ” 

'' Nonsense, who’d imprison a monkey like that? — 
You are not going, Adela, and you needn’t think it. 
I shan’t allow you to undertake such a journey, it 
would knock you up completely; probably you would 
have to travel a good deal of the time on an outside 
car. That wouldn’t quite suit you, I think. Send 
what’s-her-name — your maid — White, if you must 
send anybody.” 

'' Oh, mamma, let me go,” pleaded Joan, who had 
been for some little time choking down her tears in 
the background. '' Do let me go — perhaps Erin 
would listen to me! I do think I am the person she 
loves best in the world.” 

'' I think I will go,” said Mark, suddenly looking 
up. '' Let Joan come, too — I could not very well 
bring Miss Fitzgerald back alone with me, I suppose. 
Let Joan come. I will take care of her.” 

My dear Mark! ” cried his aunt in amazement, 
''are you serious? Don’t you think it will be a little — 
awkward?” 

" I think it will be exceedingly awkward for every- 
body if something isn’t done at once. You know. 
Uncle Edward, a great deal of responsibility attaches 
to the custody of a ward in chancery. You’ll find 


256 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


yourself in trouble if there is any catastrophe over 
there/’ 

''Why, what' can I do?” cried Sir Edward. "The 
little minx won’t mind what I say.” 

" It will be said that you should not have let her 
out of your sight. However, do not let us waste time 
in talking. We must be off at once. We are too late 
for the mail, of course, but we can go by the Holy- 
head — Dublin line. Get to Dublin to-night, start by 
the first train to-morrow morning. I suppose we shall 
find out all further particulars there. Can you be 
ready, Joan? ” 

" Really, Mark, I’m not sure that I shall let Joan 
go — I don’t half like the notion of her being in this 
wild place where there are all sorts of disturbances 
going on — something might happen to her.” 

" I will be answerable for her. She shall not go 
near the disturbances. I think that Joan and I to- 
gether might possibly do some good.” 

" Yes, yes, let her go, mamma; let her go,” put in 
Sir Edward, much relieved at finding he was not 
expected to go himself. " Mark will take care of her, 
won’t you, Mark? Mark is as steady as a rock.” 

" I don’t half like it,” persisted Lady Tweedale, 
" but I suppose we can’t do anything else. Take 
plenty of wraps, Joan, and you’d better have a basket 
of provisions. Telegraph to me every day, won’t you, 
and come back as soon as ever you can. I suppose it 
is better for me not to write to Mrs. Riley. You will 
get there almost before a letter could reach — and, 
in any case, I fancy you will have a better chance if 
you take Erin by surprise.” 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


257 


Mark and Joan agreed to this, and everyone hurried 
away to make their various preparations. The jour- 
ney planned in such haste proved more tedious and 
difficult than they had anticipated. Part of it had to 
be accomplished on the long cars which take the place 
of railways in certain districts; and by one of those 
untoward accidents which sometimes beset the path 
of travellers most desirous of speed, one of these cars 
broke down on the road, and Mark and Joan reached 
the next stage of their journey too late to catch the 
corresponding train. 

It was not, therefore, until two days after they had 
set forth from Fletewood that they arrived at their 
destination. They were obliged to drive the last 
ten miles of their journey on an ordinary car; Mark 
endeavored to obtain information from the driver as 
to the anticipated events, but found him either igno- 
rant or taciturn.- Pie pointed out with his whip, 
indeed, a spot high up among the hills, remarking 
that the district in question was '' over beyant,’’ but 
was either unwilling or unable to enlighten the 
travellers further. 

After some difficulty they succeeded in identifying 
the house where Mrs. Riley and Erin were lodging. 
It was a small farmhouse, occupying a rather solitary 
position at the foot of a bare, bleak, brown hill, and 
both the travellers were at once struck by its deserted 
look. 

After knocking for a considerable time, the door 
was partly opened, and a pale, anxious-eyed woman 
peered at them from behind the crevice. She gazed 
with blank amazement first at the travellers and then 


258 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


at the car, and at the little pile of luggage heaped in 
the centre. 

‘‘ Is there a lady called Mrs. Riley staying here? 
inquired Mark; he deemed it better not to ask for 
Erin. 

The woman hesitated, and then replied that there 
was. 

Will you kindly tell her that the friends she 
expected have come to see her? ’’ said Mark. He 
turned to assist Joan to alight, and desired the car- 
driver to put up his horse for a few hours, as he would 
want him again in the afternoon. 

If only we could persuade her to come away at 
once,’’ he murmured to Joan, as they followed their 
dubious and unwilling guide into a small parlor at 
the back of the house. There they found Mrs. Riley 
sitting alone. Erin was nowhere to be seen. 

Mrs. Riley stared at them blankly for a moment, 
and then clapped her hands. 

''Sir Edward Tweedale,” she ciied; "is it Sir 
Edward Tweedale? Have you come from England?” 

" Yes, yes,” cried Joan eagerly. " My father and 
mother couldn’t come, and so they have sent us. 
I am Joan Tweedale, and this is my cousin, Mr. 
Wimbourne. We are come to fetch Erin — oh, where 
is Erin? ” 

" God be praised! ” ejaculated Mrs. Riley. " I’ve 
been praying night and day for this; but you very 
nearly came too late. Sure, the evictions are to take 
place this very day. I was at my wits’ end about 
Erin. The poor child, there was no holding her. 
But what d'ye think? I have her locked up.” 


A RESCUING TARTY. 


259 


Locked up? ’’ cried Mark and Joan together, too 
much disturbed and excited to smile. 

''Yes, indeed!’’ triumphantly producing a large, 
rusty door-key. " By the greatest good luck her 
room opens out of mine, so she can’t persuade any- 
body else to let her out. When she went up to put 
on her hat this morning, I just slipped up after her 
and turned the key in the lock, and I locked my own 
door, too, so she is safe. Sure, it’s the only thing I 
could do. There was no gettin’ any good of her. 
’Pon me word, ye’d think she was out of her mind 
these days! She called out to me when she heard me, 
beggin’ me for God’s sake to let her out at once; but, 
says I — ' No, my darlin’ child. I’ll have to keep you 
safe for your own good.’ And I came away because 
I couldn’t bear to hear her beggin’ and prayin’ me.” 

" You are a clever woman,” cried Mark, shaking 
her hand cordially. " If you had not had your wits 
about you there might have been a dreadful mis- 
fortune.” 

" Thank you, sir,” returned Mrs. Riley. " I’m sure 
half the time I didn’t know whether I had any wits 
at all, or whether I was in them or out of them, but 
I’m glad you think I managed for the best. Will you 
step upstairs now, miss, and we’ll let out our darling 
prisoner, and you must try and persuade her to have 
sense. I’m afraid it’ll be long enough before she’ll 
forgive me for this piece of work. We’ll bring her 
down with us in a minute or two, sir; will ye sit down 
while ye’re waiting? ” 

She left the room with Joan, and Mark patiently 
waited; but though hurried footsteps were audible in 


260 


A RESCUING PARTY. 


the room overhead, he heard no cry of recognition. 
By-and-by Joan's voice sounded from the top of the 
stairs. 

'' Mark, Mark, come here quickly.'^ 

He bounded up, three steps at a time. In the first 
small, scantily furnished bedroom Mrs. Riley and Joan 
were standing gazing at each other with white, terri- 
fied faces. The inner room was empty! 


CHAPTER XL 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 

FTER a pause of astonishment and dismay, Mark 
walked to the window; the explanation of Erin’s 
disappearance was simple enough. The sill was only 
about twelve feet from the ground, and the gnarled 
branches of a pear-tree afforded an easy means of 
descent. Mrs. Riley had not taken these facts into 
her calculations. 

There is no difficulty in explaining how she got 
away,” said Mark rather dryly; '‘but the problem of 
how to get hold of her is more difficult. You say 
these evictions are to take place to-day,” he pursued, 
turning to Mrs. Riley. "Are you quite sure? We 
met hardly any one on the road coming here, and 
everything seems quiet enough.” 

" It’s to-day they’re to come off, sure enough,” 
groaned poor Mrs. Riley; "and you wouldn’t be 
likely to meet any one concerned in them. The place 
is two miles away from here, and the sheriff and police 

and all will be coming from , near eight miles 

off on the other side.” 

" Then Erin may be in the very thick of the affair 
now,” cried Mark. "There’s not a moment to be lost. 
Joan, you must stay quietly here with Mrs. Riley, and 
I will take the car and drive as fast as I can to this 
place. Tell me the name again, Mrs. Riley.” 


261 


262 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


ril come down and explain to the carman where 
it is, and the nearest way of getting at it,’"' returned 
Mrs. Riley. '' Bless us and save us, this is a terrible 
day! To think of her giving me the slip like that! ’’ 
In a few minutes Mark had hunted up the driver 
of his car — induced him by a substantial bribe to 
harness the horse with all possible speed, and started 
off on his quest, leaving Mrs. Riley wringing her 
hands on the doorstep. One or two heads j>eered at 
the retreating vehicle from behind the angle of the 
house, and the woman who had admitted Mark and 
his cousin stood’in the road watching it with a curious 
expression. When it had disappeared, she turned to 
Mrs. Riley, '' It’s to be hoped he manes well by the 
^darlin’ young lady,” she said. 

Means well? Why wouldn’t he mean well? Isn’t 
he her own first cousin or the. next thing to it? ” 
retorted that lady, whose ideas were considerably 
scattered by the occurrences of the morning. 

Meanwhile Mark, feverishly impatient, was urging 
the driver to yet greater speed. If the man had been 
taciturn before, he was now absolutely mute, except 
for an occasional interjection to his horse. He sat, 
looking frowningly at the road before him, every now 
and then turning his head as though to listen. 

The sombre grandeur of the gorge in which they 
soon found themselves impressed Mark strangely. 
The heather was now in full bloom, and though 
wonderful purple lights caught it here and there, the 
general effect was gloomy. Huge boulders of rock 
appeared to have been scattered freely by some g.ant 
hand over the precipitous sides of these dark moun- 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


26 : 


tains. The only living things about them were the 
little streams which ran babbling over their stony 
beds at frequent intervals. 

They had proceeded about a mile and a half, when 
the driver suddenly checked his horse and threw up 
his hand. 

‘'What’s that?” he whispered, speaking to Mark 
for the first time, and looking round at him with a 
blanched and terrified face. 

It was the rattle of firearms. The hills caught up 
the sound, and it echoed from side to side with 
sinister effect. 

“ They’re at it,” cried the driver, still staring at 
Mark. 

“What! are they resisting the police?” inquired 
Mark, anxiously. 

The man shrok his head, and jerked his thumb 
forward with an expressive gesture. 

“ Them’s not our boys,” he cried. “ Didn’t ye hear 
they was shootin’ altogether — them’s the soldiers.” 
He proceeded to relieve his mind by a few choice 
qualifying epithets. 

Mark, in his alarm and excitement, seized him by 
the arm, and actually shook it. 

“Drive on, man!” he cried. “Drive on for 
God’s sake.” 

“ I won’t, then,” he retorted, sullenly. “ D’ye want 
me and the poor beast to get shot, and me license 
took away. I’ll not stir a step further. Go yourself, 
if ye’re that sot on it; but don’t be tryin’ to get an 
honest man into trouble.” 

“ Well, stay here until I come back, then,” returned 


264 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


Mark, angrily. I can’t waste time in arguing with 
you. But mind you do stay here,” he added, turning 
with a threatening gesture. 

The man acquiesced sulkily, and Mark set off at the 
utmost speed of which his long legs were capable. A 
half-mile ‘‘ Irish ” of a stony mountain path takes a 
certain amount of time to cover, and to Mark’s 
anxious and impatient mind it seemed interminable. 
He climbed one stony incline, it seemed to him, after 
another, without drawing perceptibly nearer to his 
destination, though, as he advanced, certain sounds — 
at first indistinct, grew definite and alarming. There 
were cries, fierce shouts, the wailing of children, a 
horrible unearthly, continuous chant, which he had 
never before heard, and was too bewildered then to 
identify with the keening ” of which Erin had some- 
times spoken. As he hastened onwards he could even 
distinguish the sounds of blows. 

Rushing eagerly round the shoulder of a hill, he 
came at length in sight of the place where this medley 
was going on — a long, straggling village climbing up 
the flank of the hill on which he stood, composed for 
the most part of thatched cottages of the poorest 
description, and surrounded by small patches of corn 
and potatoes. These details were unconsciously taken 
in by Mark, and returned to him later, when he men- 
tally reviewed the scene; for the time being, his atten- 
tion was entirely absorbed by the strife before him. 
The lonely, desolate valley beneath the village was 
alive with people, struggling, fighting, shrieking. 
There was some firing, wild and disconnected, on the 
part of the insurgents — if the poor distracted bellig- 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


265 


erents, armed, for the most part, with scythes and 
sickles, could be dignified by such a title. After the 
single volley which Mark had already heard, and 
which, if truth be told, was fired over the heads of the 
combatants, the soldiery contented themselves wiih 
driving the peasants before them at the point of the 
bayonet. The sheriff and his officers were there, the 
magistrate who had read the Riot Act, and other 
functionaries; but Mark did not seek to identify them, 
all his energies being concentrated on the endeavor 
to discover the whereabouts of Erin. After seeking 
the slight figure in vain from his post of vantage, he 
ran hastily downwards towards the village. As he 
drew nearer, he saw that some rude attempts had been 
made to barricade the houses. At one point, how- 
ever, these had been broken down, and the inhabit- 
ants of two or three cabins — chiefly women and 
children — forced out into the open. A crippled 
woman had been carried out and deposited on the 
ground a little to the rear of one of these cabins, and 
the tide of battle having turned — as, indeed, it was 
bound to turn — in favor of the evicting party, who 
were distinctly gaining ground, and forcing their 
adversaries backwards up the hill towards the village, 
this poor creature was in imminent danger of l eing 
trampled to death. In spite of his anxiety on Erin’s 
behalf, Mark felt bound, in common humanity, to 
come to the woman’s rescue. As he bent over her to 
raise her in his arms, she turned on him a look of such 
abject terror that it haunted him for many a day. He 
lifted her, however, in silence — she was a mere skele- 
ton, easy to carry — and was turning to convey her to 


266 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


some safer place, when his eyes were suddenly 
attracted by other eyes — the startled blue eyes of Erin. 
She had suddenly emerged from a cabin adjoining 
that near which he stood. She looked pale and bewil- 
dered, and in her arms she held fast a little baby! 

At another moment Mark could have smiled. He 
had expected — dreaded — to find this Amazon in the 
thick of the melee, leading on the unfortunate little 
company who owed, perhaps, much of their present 
dangerous plight to her well-meant, but misguided 
interference; and lo! here she stood, in that very 
attitude which a man finds most charming and most 
attractive — when assumed by the girl he loves — his 
Amazon was holding and fondling a little child! The 
instincts of womanhood would assert themselves, it 
seemed, in the most unlikely situations. 

Thus the two looked at each other, in astonishment. 
If Mark was surprised to find her soothing a baby in 
close proximity to a desperate struggle, still more in- 
congruous must it have been to her to behold Mark — 
fastidious Mark — supporting in his arms a ragged, 
emaciated, peasant woman! 

This mutual recognition was the work of a few 
seconds; then, imperiously calling to Erin to- wait 
where she was til' he returned, Mark hastened to 
convey his burden to a place of safety. 

When he ran back, however, to the spot where he 
had left Erin, she was nowhere to be seen. After a 
few minutes’ distracted search he again descried her, 
and this time his heart leaped in renewed alarm and 
indignation. As though the mere sight of him had 
conjured up afresh her militant propensities, Erin had 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


267 


now taken the very course which he had formerly 
dreaded. She, too, had deposited her charge some- 
where in security, and had now climbed upon a low 
stone wall, and there, standing erect, her head thrown 
back, her face alight with that inspired look which it 
sometimes wore, she was calling out in clear, decided 
tones to her ill-fated adherents, who were gradually 
losing heart and retreating in increasing confusion. 
Some, indeed, had given up all attempts at resistance, 
and were hastening towards the wall on which she 
stood, intending to take refuge behind it. 

'‘Courage, men, courage!’' Mark heard her cry. 
“ If you stand firm, the victory must be yours.’'' 

Mark rushed through the little cornfield enclosed by 
the wall, and, pushing impatiently aside all who came 
in his way, sprang up beside her. 

“ Come down,” he cried hoarsely. " This is no fit 
place for you, for any woman.” Throwing his arm 
round her waist, he forced her to descend with him, 
and endeavored to lead her away, but she broke from 
him, and sought to return to her former post. " I tell 
you, you must come,” he cried frantically. " You 
shall come.” 

The loud, wrathful tones and angry face caught the 
attention of a man who had just leaped into the en- 
closure. Here was a stranger — doubtless an enemy — 
laying violent hands on their lady, their beloved Miss 
Erin, their friend and ally. He, at least, should not 
escape! 

Rushing towards Mark, whose attention was wholly 
engrossed with Erin, the man raised the rusty sickle 
which he carried, aiming a blow at his throat. 


268 


THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC. 


Mark would doubtless have received a deadly 
wound had it not been for Erin, who, turning to 
rebuke him for his interference, saw the impending 
danger, and flung herself before him, throwing her 
arms wildly round his neck. It was too late to avert 
the threatened calamity; the sickle fell, not, indeed, 
with the force originally intended; for one of Erin's 
friends, more quick to see her peril than her would-be- 
avenger, caught his descending arm. 

His strength, however, was not sufficient to ward 
off the blow; the point of the blade entered the 
fleshy part of Erin’s shoulder, inflicting a deep wound, 
and in a moment the blood gushed forth. 

Mark scarcety knew what happened next. 

Lifting the slight form, and clasping it in anguish 
to his breast, he forced his way through all who 
sought to oppose him, and ran, with a speed which he 
had not hitherto supposed himself capable of, away 
from the scene of strife. After panting up the incline 
to the rear of the village he found his task compara- 
tively easy. One or two of the peasants pursued him 
for some little way, but gave up the chase, finding it 
useless to try to overtake him; and having, indeed, 
quite enough to do to attend to their own immediate 
concerns. Besides, Erin’s recent action, and the 
shocked and tender concern in Mark’s face, were 
sufficient guarantees that he was her friend. Mark’s 
way now lay for the most part down-hill; and he 
sped onwards without pausing, until at a turn of the 
path he came upon the car. Then, halting and laying 
Erin tenderly on the turf beside the road, he gazed 
anxiously at her white, unconscious face. For a 


THE IRISH JOAN OE ARC. 


260 


moment his heart stood still; she looked like death. 
But he soon satisfied himself that her heart was still 
beating. The blood had soaked through her cloth- 
ing; his coat sleeve was wet with it, his hand red. 
Hastily tearing his handkerchief into strips, and sup- 
plementing these by pieces cut from the light cotton 
skirt which Erin wore, he made a bandage which he 
thought might in some measure stem the flow. 

The driver, after a few expressions of horrified 
amazement, gazed at him in silence; but, all at once, 
lifting the tattered cushion which covered the well of 
his car, he drew an old, ragged green rug from this 
receptacle. 

Throw that over her,’’ he said briefly. It 
wouldn’t do for anybody to see her that way.” 

Mark glanced at the man hastily and gratefully, 
touched at the delicacy of the thought, and was 
surprised to find tears in his eyes. However, there 
was no time to be lost in conversation; so, enfolding 
Erin in the wrap, and again lifting her tenderly in his 
arms, he climbed carefully on the car with her. The 
driver did not need to be told to use all possible speed, 
and urged his horse to a gallop. And thus it came to 
pass that Erin’s wild childish dreams of long ago 
were in a measure fulfilled, and that it was under 
draperies of blood-stained green that the Irish Joan 
of Arc was borne away from the field of her first and 
last battle. 


CHAPTER XII. 


AFTER THE FRAY. 

RIN’S wound, though deep and painful, was 
luckily not dangerous; but the shock to her 
nervous system had been so great that she was 
prostrated for several days. The doctor, summoned 
with all speed from a distance of several miles, proved, 
like many Irish country practitioners, remarkably 
clever and efficient. It was explained to him that 
Erin had unfortunately happened to be present at 
the recent rising, and had been accidentally wounded. 
The doctor was a discreet man and asked no further 
questions, though he must secretly have been a good 
deal astonished at the untoward chancewhich brought 
the young lady to such a place at such a time. Mark, 
meeting him downstairs after his first visit to the 
patient, managed to convey to him the advisability 
of being silent as to the nature of the case; girls some- 
times did foolish things, he said, and it was always a 
pity when a thoughtless act was talked about — serious 
consequences might sometimes ensue. The doctor 
nodded, remarking that he did not in any case consider 
it professional to discuss his cases with outsiders and 
the two parted with a perfect understanding between 
them. 

The car-driver was also squared,^"' and, indeed, was 
not inclined in any case to gossip about the affair. 


270 


AFTER THE FRAY, 


271 


No one else, as Mark reflected, was likely to connect 
Erin with the recent affray. He knew the occupants 
of the farmhouse could be counted on, and the poor 
creatures yonder, many of whom were now sorely 
expiating their rashness, would not be likely to 
betray her. He breathed more freely as the days 
passed; it was evident that Erin's connection with the 
sad business had passed unno.ticed. He remained at 
the farmhouse — indeed, he could not bring himself 
to leave the place; and he had a good excuse for stay- 
ing, for Joan was determined to nurse her friend until 
she grew better, and he had promised his uncle and 
aunt to take charge of Joan. The accommodation, 
the best his poor hosts could afford, was certainly of 
the most limited kind, and the fare very different from 
that to which he was accustomed; though Mrs. Riley, 
in her anxiety to make Erin's friends comfortable, 
occasionally lent a hand with the cooking. Still, what 
did anything matter? She was there, and he was 
near her! 

Meanwhile, Erin remained in a condition bordering 
on collapse — a merciful condition, as she was after- 
wards tempted to think; for as she gained strength, 
the horror of the experience through which she had 
passed increased and grew more acute. She was 
haunted by the sight of those wild, suffering faces, by 
the sound of those strange cries, and the yet more 
terrible, more sickening sound of blows. She was 
humiliated and maddened by the recollection of what 
she stigmatized as her own cowardice, her foolish 
bewilderment. In the hour of trial, the crucial hour, 
when her wits should have been clear and her spirit 


272 


AFTER THE FRAY. 


brave, she had suffered herself to be paralyzed by a 
terror which she had not strength of will to^ conquer, 
a disgust and dread at the sights and sounds that 
necessarily accompanied the strife, which might, in- 
deed, have been looked for in a silly school-girl, but 
was criminal in one who aspired to lead her fellow- 
men. Not until Mark had appeared on the scene had 
she been able to rally her courage, and then it had 
been too late. 

As to the sequel of the affair, Erin could not think 
of it without hot, miserable blushes. She had saved 
him — yes, but could she ever look him in the face 
again? 

Her wound healed rapidly, thanks to her youth and 
perfect health; and, in spite of her uneasiness of mind, 
she began to gain strength. One day the doctor 
announced that she might move into another room, 
and Mrs. Riley and Joan accordingly carried her down 
to the parlor. 

'' You look more like yourself to-day,'’ cried Joan, 
joyfully, when she was established on the little horse- 
hair sofa. You will let Mark see you for a few 
moments, will you not? He has been so anxious 
about you, poor fellow." 

'' Oh, no," cried Erin, quickly; ''no, I don't want 
to see him. I can't see him! " 

" Very well," returned Joan, soothingly; " you 
shan’t if you don't like. But still, poor Mark has 
been awfully miserable! " 

" Joan, you know he would have been killed — if I 
had not thrown myself before him. Did he tell you 
about it? 


AFTER THE FRAY. 


273 


Yes, he told me you came between him and the 
man who aimed a blow at his throat. He could not 
speak much about it, but I know what he must have 
thought and felt. My darling, it was brave and noble 
of you! 

Joan's own voice faltered as she spoke, and she 
bent down to kiss her friend; but Erin turned away 
her head a little impatiently. 

'' Don't talk nonsense! I couldn't help doing it — 
I should have done the same for anybody else. I 
didn't want him to be killed — I didn't want anybody 
to be killed. O Joan, I do hope no one was killed. 
Tell me the truth." 

I am quite sure there were no deaths," returned 
Joan, decidedly. '' I know, because I asked Mark, 
and he has made constant inquiries. There were a 
good many nasty wounds, but none of them are likely 
to be fatal." 

'' Do you know what was the end of — of the whole 
business? " asked Erin, in tremulous tones. She had 
been longing to ask this question before, but her 
courage had failed her. 

I am afraid you won't much like to hear about it,'" 
returned Joan, hesitatingly. 

'‘Tell me at once, all the same — it is better to 
know the worst." 

" Well, there wasn't much more fighting after 3^011 
were taken away. The soldiers overpowered the 
people and forced them to give up their arms, and 
they — they, took away a good many of them." 

" To prison, do 3^ou mean? " 

" I suppose so," returned Joan, unwillingly. 


274 


AFTER THE FRAY, 


Erin threw herself back on her pillows and closed 
her eyes. 

'‘I ought to go there too/’ she said, after a pause. 
'' I was quite as much to blame as they. I encouraged 
them — I egged them on.” 

'' My dear child,” said Joan, patting her head with 
a little soothing manner very like her mother’s, ‘‘they’d 
have done it if you hadn’t come here at all. You don’t 
suppose these people would risk so much just beca.use 
a pretty little lady told them to? Not they, my dear. 
But all this talk is very bad for an invalid — you are 
getting quite flushed. Lie quiet, and I will read you a 
nice little foolish, frivolous novel. Mamma sent me 
a batch the other day.” 

Erin did not oppose Joan’s suggestion, though it is 
to be feared that she took in but little of the sense of 
the volume alluded to. The quiet, monotonous tone 
of Joan’s voice, however, produced a soothing effect; 
which, in conjunction with her weakness and the 
fatigue consequent on the unaccustomed exertions of 
the morning, at length induced drowsiness. Joan 
closed the book, seeing that her friend had fallen into 
a deep sleep, and sat very still beside her. 

By-and-by Mrs. Riley came in, nodding with evi- 
dent satisfaction on discovering the state of affairs. 
She crossed the room with astonishing lightness, con- 
sidering her substantial form, and with much silent 
mouthing and a great deal of gesticulation contrived 
to make Joan understand that she had come to take 
her place. 

The girl thereupon stole away in search of Mark, 
and Mrs. Riley installed herself in her vacant chair, 


AFTER THE FRAY. 


275 


throwing. a handkerchief over her head and composing 
herself for a nap in her turn. She had not, however, 
yet begun to doze, when the handle of the door turned 
softly and Mark entered. He stood just within the 
room, placing a finger on his lip to enjoin silence, and 
for some moments gazed attentively at Erin. Mrs. 
Riley stared hard at him, but could make out nothing 
from his face; it was quiet, serious, but betrayed 
nothing of what the man might be feeling. Never- 
theless, as Mrs. Riley shrewdly opined, the man was 
probably feeling a good deal. 

The intensity of his gaze affected the unconscious 
Erin. She stirred, her eyelids quivered; she opened 
her eyes just in time to see the door close, but not to 
identify the retreating form. She raised her head and 
looked inquiringly at Mrs. Riley. 

''Are you here, dear Mrs. Riley? I suppose it was 
Joan who went out just now.’' 

" It was not Miss Joan, then,” replied the old lad}^ 
who was, for unexplained reasons, in the most jubilant 
mood. " Ton my word, though, it was a shame to 
disturb you, and you in such a lovely sleep! ” 

" Who was it went out just now? ” inquired Erin, 
rather sharply. 

"Wouldn’t you like to know?” retorted Mrs. Riley, 
waggishly. " Maybe you could guess now, if you put 
your mind to it.” She winked with both eyes to- 
gether, clapping a hand on each plump knee. " It 
was your beau, then! ” 

"Oh,” said Erin, falling back on her pillows again; 
" but he isn’t that, Mrs. Riley, and I wish you hadn’t 
let him in. What did he come here for? ” 


276 


AFTER THE FRAY. 


'' Faith, my dear, he didn't ask to be let in. He 
just walked in and stood there as quiet as a mouse, 
lookin’ at you. I suppose that’s what he came for. 
There he stood,” repeated Mrs. Riley, with unction, 
and not a word out of him; but just lookin’, lookin’, 
as if he’d eat ye up with his two eyes.” 

This hyperbole discomposed Erin a good deal; she 
flushed hotly and turned away her face. Mrs. Riley 
chuckled. 

‘‘A nicer young mian — and a kinder-hearted and 
more pleasant spoken than your gentleman, Erin, my 
dear, I wouldn’t wish to see. ’Ron my word, you’re 
a lucky girl!” 

'' I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Mrs. Riley,” 
returned Erin, pettishly. He isn’t anything at all 
to me.” 

'' Oh, he isn’t, isn’t he? ” retorted Mrs. Riley, de- 
risively. Moya! what’s he stopping here for then? 
Hanging about the door every time I come in or out 
of your room, and asking me twenty times a day how 
you are — not that he’ll tease me with questions, you 
know — he’s always quite the gentleman — he just 
asks me very quiet and pleasant, ‘ How is she now, 
Mrs. Riley?’ or, ‘How is our invalid getting on?’ 
and then I tell him, and he’ll go off with himself; but 
in a little while he’ll be back again — Ms there any- 
thing, do you think, that she would fancy? Game or 
anything. I could telegraph to Dublin for it.’ And, 
mind you, he’ll walk miles and miles to the telegraph 
office, quite delighted. Sure, he used to be goin' 
about like a ghost the first days after you were 
hurt. Always quiet, you know, and makin’ no fuss, 


APTER THE FRAY. 


277 


but lookin' as pale! It’s my opinion,” summed up 
Mrs. Riley, emphatically, that if he isn’t anything to 
ye now, he wants to be.” 

Erin did not argue the matter, but after a pause 
die asked diffidently, eying Mrs. Riley the while, 
“ Do you like Mr. Wimbourne? ” 

'' Like him? Him and me’s the very best of 
friends! He’ll joke me,” pursued Mrs. Riley, and go 
on at me sometimes till I nearly die laughing! And 
he’s as pleasant and good-natured! Sure, he and I 
play cribbage in the evenings mostly now. ’Ron me 
word, Erin, you’ll have to look out — if you’re not 
up and about soon, who knows that I won’t be steal- 
ing a march on you! ” 

Here Mrs. Riley winked again, and fell to rocking 
herself to and fro, clapping her hands together, 
chuckling delightedly the while. Erin was obliged to 
laugh too, but soon became grave. So Mark was 
not shocked by Mrs. Riley’s homely little ways — he 
and she were the best of friends, as she said. She was 
glad to think it — glad that he was above the petti- 
ness with which she had credited, him. Les amis de 
nos amis sonf nos amis, of course — it was probably 
for her sake that he had endeavored to secure Mrs. 
Riley’s good will. She could not help feeling touched 
and pleased, and yet, what was the use of it all? 


CHAPTER XIII, 

Antigone! 

M ARK had been deeply hurt at Erin’s refusal 
to see him. He listened, however, with an 
occasional smile, to Joan’s account of her recent 
conversation with her, making no comment, but at the 
end quietly announcing his determination of stealing 
a look at her. 

'' It cannot offend her since she is asleep,” he said. 
'' I must see her — I must see how she looks, and 
satisfy myself that she is not much the worse for ah 
she has gone through.” 

‘'Have you satisfied yourself?” inquired Joan, when 
a few minutes later he returned to her. 

“Yes — she looks lovely — I wish she would look at 
me. If I were the high-minded individual you once 
thought me, Joan, I ought to snap my fingers and 
say, ‘ If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair 
she be? ’ — but I don’t, you see.” 

“ You haven’t changed your mind, then?” inquired 
Joan, innocently. 

“ No, Joan — it will surprise you very much to hear 
it, but I have not.” He paused, looking hesitatingly 
at Joan with a query trembling on his lips, but he 
forbore to speak it, merely remarking after a time, 
“ I’m afraid there’s not much use in my staying here.” 


ANTIGONE! 


279 


‘'Why? — because she refused to see you? My dear 
Mark, I would not think too much about that — any 
other girl would do the same thing.’' 

“ Do you think so? ” inquired Mark, gazing at her 
pensively. 

“ You see it is very natural she should feel a little 
queer. I think it will be all right in the end,” added 
Joan, oracularly. 

Mark was more consoled by this innuendo than he 
would have cared to own. His hopes had risen un- 
reasonably high of late. Erin had shown so plainl}?* 
the strength and ardor of her love, and the lesson 
which she had received had been so severe, that it 
seemed to him the fictitious barrier between them 
could no longer exist, even in her imagination, and 
that his dreams would be realized at last. 

Erin’s recent rebuff had somewhat dashed these 
hopes, however, and he was proportionately delighted 
at Joan’s intimation. If any one knew Erin, surely 
Joan did. 

Nevertheless, when a day or two passed, and Erin 
still persistently declined to see him, the matter 
assumed a serious aspect. He could no longer post- 
pone his departure to England; the elections would 
very shortly take place. Lady Tweedale had also 
written to desire Joan’s return. Erin was not yet 
strong enough to be moved, but Mrs. Riley would 
take good care of her. The oddly assorted little party 
was about to be broken up, and everything was still 
undecided as regarded the prospects of its two chief 
members. Mark could not, however, leave without 
making one more effort to set things right. Surely 


280 


ANTIGONE! 


Erin could not refuse to grant him an interview, if 
only to enable him to say good-by. 

This time Erin did unwillingly consent to see him, 
and on the morning of departure he entered the 
parlor where she was. She had been sitting in an 
armchair, but rose involuntarily when he entered. 

He had meant to be very calm and composed, to 
talk to her quietly, to endeavor by clear, forcible argu- 
ments to bring her to see reason. But somehow at 
the sight of the fragile little figure that looked so unlit 
to battle with the world alone, the pale, beautiful face 
turned to him timidly, the eyes full of unconscious 
entreaty, his self-possession deserted him. For oncd 
the cool, sedate Mr. Mark Wimbourne completely 
lost his head. He crossed the room quickly, and 
taking her cold trembling hands in his, kissed them 
repeatedly. 

She tried to draw them away, but he held them fast. 

‘'What is the use of resisting fate?’’ he cried. “You 
are mine, and I am yours — I will not let you go.” 

“ How can you say such things? ” she stammered. 
“Why do you come here? — it only gives us useless 
pain. Have we not talked it all out before? Nothing 
is changed.” 

“ Much is changed,” returned Mark, unconsciously 
tightening his grasp of the little hands. 

“Do you mean,” she cried, reddening fiercely, “that 
you think you have a claim on me now, because of 
what happened the other day? ” 

“I do think so,” he returned passionately. “ I have 
a claim, a sacred claim — the claim of the man you 
love well enough to give your life for! Oh, my dear. 


ANTIGONE! 


28i 


it is time to have done with phrases and follies! You 
are ten times, a thousand times dearer to me now than 
you were before. I was bewitched by you before — 
I will not deny it, your very contradictoriness fas- 
cinated me — but this — this is something different.” 

Struggle as she might, a tide of unwilling joy swept 
over Erin. After all, she did love him, and there was 
happiness in merely listening to such words as these. 
Of late, she had tormented herself with the idea that 
her recent harshness had caused her to fall in his eyes, 
that in spite of his attachment to her, her conduct had 
called forth his displeasure. She could not forget the 
wrath and scorn of the tone v;ith which he had told 
her that such a scene as that in which she had taken 
so active a part was unfit for any woman. It was as 
much on this account as any other that she had so 
long dreaded to see him. The revulsion of feeling 
was now overwhelming. 

'' I thought you would despise me,” she cried in- 
voluntarily. 

'' My sweet, I never loved you so well. I have 
found you out, you see,” he added almost jubilantly, 
for the mobile face before him unconsciously told its 
tale — '' my will o’ the wisp, I have found you out to 
be a woman! Yes, the situation resolves itself into 
this; we stand face to face, woman and man, and we 
love each other. You want me and I want you — and 
I will have you.” 

He drew her gently towards him, encircling her 
with his arms at last. 

'' My little Erin,” he whispered, do you not feel 
that you want me to love you and to take care of 


282 


ANTIGONE! 


you, and cherish you always? Surely you feel that 
nothing divides us now/’ 

‘‘ Nothing divides us! ” Erin looked at him. How 
changed his face was, transformed and transfigured — 
he had then changed in other ways, too. Could it 
really be that she had conquered at last? 

“ Nothing divides us,” she repeated with a little 
irrepressible sob. '‘Oh, Mark, dear Mark, are you 
quite sure? Nothing? ” 

"I am quite sure,” returned Mark. The little proud 
head was at last nestling on his shoulder — the wilful 
little hand was resting confidingly in his. He scarcely 
knew what he was saying. 

"You — you will love my people, Mark?” she 
asked. 

" You shall teach me to love them,” he replied. 
" With your sweet lips so near, my darling, there is 
nothing I could not learn.” 

Erin could not speak; her heart wa» too full of 
happiness. 

"And to think,” pursued Mark, tenderly, " that all 
these days you have kept me away from you! Only 
at the last, the very last moment you have relented. 
Never mind, we must make up for it when I come 
back.” 

" When you come back,” echoed Erin, a little 
disconsolately. " You must go, I suppose? Yes, 
of course, Joan couldn’t travel alone, and Lady 
Tweedale wants her to go home at once.’^ 

"Never mind,” returned Mark, joyously, "I will 
come back as soon as ever I can be spared; and when 
the elections are over, then, love, we will have a quiet 


ANTIGONE! 


283 


little wedding, and wander away together — and I 
will show you 

When the elections are over! Erin raised her head 
and sought to disengage herself. The phrase had 
fallen like a thunderbolt. Was it possible — could 
it be possible that Fate was about to cheat her 
again ? 

'' When the elections are over,’’ she repeated 
blankly. I do not understand.” 

Mark looked at her for a moment in silence, but 
the expression of his face did not alter, his spirits were 
not dashed. Dear, sweet, tender little creature, she 
had clung to him, she had admitted her need of his 
love, she had shown plainly how dear he was to her — 
nothing, indeed, could part them now. 

'' The polling for our division of the county will 
take place in about a fortnight,” he said. '' I cannot 
desert my post, you know; but when this piece of 
business is once done with, you and I will have a 
holiday.” 

''Do you mean,” she cried, almost harshly, "that 
after this, Mark, you still intend to stand? I — 
thought you had given up the idea. Surely you 
meant me to understand you had given it up.” 

" I cannot give it up,” he said, speaking more 
gravely than before. " Erin, there is scarcely any- 
thing you could not persuade me to do, but you will 
not ask me to do this. It would be unfair to throw 
over my friends at the last moment; and, besides, they 
think — rightly or wrongly — that I have a better 
chance than another man would have.” 


284 


ANTIGONE! 


“ Then it is all a mistake,” gasped Erin; you mean 
everything to be just as before. You will give up 
nothing. Oh, it was cruel and treacherous of you to 
lead me on.” 

Mark came down from the heights, and an expres- 
sion of dogged determination replaced the former joy 
and triumph in his face. 

'' There is no mistake,” he replied firmly. I said 
that nothing divided us. Nothing does divide us. Do 
you think you owe nothing to me? That I am to be 
trifled with, cast aside because of a mere prejudice? 
I tell you I will not be put aside. I have come into 
your life, and I will remain there. This is the 
turning point of both our lives, Erin; let everything 
else go. We remain to each other; we belong to 
each other.” 

But you,” cried Erin, with a choked voice, you 
will give up nothing for me! You even say I must 
not ask you to give up this plan. O Mark — ” 
suddenly turning towards him and clinging to him 
entreatingly — Mark, I do ask you, I beg of you! 
Give it up for my sake! Do you owe nothing to me? 
I love you, and you love me, and yet you will con- 
demn me to misery! Can that be right? Can that 
be honorable? Mark, Mark,” she continued more 
wildly, do this for me, and I will be your devoted 
and obedient wife. I will interfere with you in nothing 
else — I will trust you! Though we may never think 
alike, I will trust you.” 

Her hot tears were falling on his hands. For one 
moment Mark was tempted, probably more fiercely 


ANTIGONE! 


285 


tempted than he had ever yet been in the course of 
his well-regulated life, to take her at her word. After 
all, he would not be the first man who deemed the 
world well lost for love. But it was only for a 
moment ; then he said very gently — 

'' My darling, you do not understand — there are 
some things a man cannot do. I have given my 
word — I cannot draw back now. But you will trust 
me, Erin, even though my point of view is incompre- 
hensible to you? Believe me, when I tell you that if 
I could in conscience do what you ask, I would. I 
would give up for your sake my career — my ambi- 
tions — everything! 

“And I,’’ said Erin, speaking firmly, though with 
white lips, “ would also give up all for you, except my 
principles. I, too, am pledged — I, too, am bound 
by a solemn promise. I have sworn to belong 
wholly to my country — I will never give myself to 
one who has resolved to deny her her rights and 
liberties."’ 

“ Erin, Erin, this is folly! cruel and perverse folly! 
Child, open your eyes, and see things as they are. 
You are deluding yourself, making a kind of fetish 
of this imaginary personification of Ireland. All these 
vague, poetical, romantic ideas go for nothing — your 
dream-Ireland does not exist — as for the real Ireland, 
I will learn to know and love it in your company. I 
can see for myself that it is beautiful.” 

“And yet you would withhold from it national 
life! What mockery, Mark! Let us have an end 
of it! Either promise what I ask, or leave me in 
peace,” 


286 


ANTIGONE! 


'' Think well what you are doing, Erin,” said Mark 
passionately, almost fiercely, “ a moment like this is 
almost like the moment of death. Then everything 
slips away, and we stand alone, face to face with God. 
Now we must face each other — we are driven towards 
each other — we have claims, each on the other, too 
sacred to be set aside. Erin, you would have died 
for me — we cannot forget it. If you had died of that 
wound, remember you would not have given your 
life for your country, but for me.” 

''All the same, Mark,” said Erin, almost inarticu- 
lately, " I cannot marry you if you carry out your 
purpose. You said just now there were some things 
a man could not do. There is this one thing that 
I cannot do — and I will not.” 

She disengaged herself abruptly as she said the 
last words, and before he could stop her, darted past 
him and left the room. 

He heard her mounting the stairs more slowly, for 
there her weakness came against her, and lock her- 
self into the room above. He remained in the same 
attitude as that in which she had left him, staring 
blankly at the door, until Joan entered. Then he 
pulled himself together, and endeavored to entrench 
himself behind his customary rampart of calm uncon- 
cern. But Joan was too quick for him. After one 
glance she went up to him, laying her hand anxiously 
on his arm. 

" No luck, Mark? ” 

He drew a long breath. 

" I am afraid not, and yet I can hardly believe it. 
We must be starting directly, I suppose — Joan, just 


ANTIGONE! 


287 


run up and ask Erin if her decision is quite final. Tell 
her/’ he added hoarsely, '' that we are going — going 
immediately.” 

Joan mounted the stairs quickly, and Mark heard 
her tap at the door overhead; then, after a moment’s 
parley, she returned more slowly. 

'' She says it is quite final, Mark.” 

Very well,” said Mark. 

Half-an-hour later, Erin heard the car drive away, 
and stood by the window, listening stonily, until the 
sound of the wheels was lost in the distance. Then 
she sank down in a forlorn heap on the floor. 


EPILOGUE. 


AFTERMATH, 

NCE more Erin sat alone on the familiar hill-top 
w here she had dreamed away so many hours in 
her childhood. It was a bright, cloudless, September 
day, and the valley below glowed golden in the sun- 
light. Through the still air the notes of a lark over- 
head sounded piercingly sweet. Erin sat in the 
attitude she had so often assumed of old, her feet 
crossed, her hands clasped round her knees. 

For the last w^eek she had been staying with Mrs. 
Riley at Glenmor. She had been so unwell after the 
departure of Mark and Joan that her friend had been 
seriously alarmed. As soon as she had regained some 
measure of strength, she had implored to be allowed 
to leave a spot which had grown hateful to her, and 
they had journeyed by slow degrees to Glenmor; Mrs. 
Riley having consented to stay there with her for 
some time, in the hope that the beautiful air would 
revive her, and that a return to the old scenes and 
associations might restore some measure of anima- 
tion. For Erin had looked and felt broken-spirited 
since her last crucial disappointment. It seemed to 
her that her life W’as broken up, laid waste — nothing 
remained to her. 

As she sat here in the sunlight, the memory of her 


AFTERMATH. 


280 


old plans and dreams returned to her with almost 
unendurable poignancy. How much she had hoped 
to do with her life in those days, and now how useless, 
how purposeless was this life! She was powerless to 
work for her own people — and, for Ireland at large, 
what could she do? Her past efforts had resulted 
only in failure, and it seemed to her that, do what she 
might in the future, failure would still await her. She 
could have borne her own personal loneliness and 
anguish if her sacrifice could have lightened the lot 
of others. But, with all her strong aims and high 
resolves, what was she but a miserable, useless unit, 
who had carried through no piece of work with suc- 
cess — none, except the breaking of her own heart, 
and the spoiling of the life of the man she loved? 

Mark’s face haunted her, as it had not ceased to 
haunt her since their final parting; now the remem- 
brance of that reproachful, almost pleading, look in 
his eyes seemed positively to stab her, and all at once, 
with a groan, she flung herself down on the sun-lit 
soil, burying her face in her hands. 

She had lain thus a little while, all absorbed in the 
turmoil of her own passion and her own sorrow, when 
suddenly she felt, in some inexplicable way, that she 
was not alone. It was fancy surely, which, when she 
raised her head, conjured up within a few paces of 
her the very image which had dominated her troubled 
thoughts. 

“ Mark! ” she cried falteringly, pressing her hand 
across her eyes. Not Mark! I am dreaming! ” 

Was not Mark at that very moment hundreds of 
miles away, busy with his new triumphs? 


290 


AFTERMATH, 


Yet it was no wraith, but the man himself — in- 
tensely, exultantly alive — who now approached and 
bent over her. 

'' Dreaming, Erin? ’’ he said. Do you sometimes 
dream of me, then, here where you have had so many 
other dreams and plans? I recognize the place, you 
see — they told me I should find you here. Ah, sweet, 
why do I find )^ou with wet eyes? Why are your 
eyes wet, Erin? ’’ 

‘‘Can you ask?” she cried, with an irrepressible 
burst of sobs. “ Have I not failed in everything? 
You talk of my hopes and dreams — oh, how much I 
planned to do! and what have I done except bring 
misery on those I love.” 

He looked at her with a kind of joyous triumph 
which she could not understand, and said gently — 

“ Who knows — you may do great things yet. 
Those childish dreams of yours may be realized in 
some way you did not think of — a better way, Erin. 
One day, perhaps, we may work out some of your 
projects — together! ” 

“ Do not mock me! ” cried Erin, fiercely. “ Why 
do you come here? You only torture me.” 

She sprang to her feet, stretching out trembling 
hands, as though to push him to one side; but he 
caught them and held them fast. 

“ I have come to bring you news,” he said, still 
speaking very gently, though his face was bright with 
extraordinary joy. “ I have travelled all night to tell 
you. If you have failed, Erin, so have I. Congratu- 
late me.” 


AFTERMATH. 


291 


He paused a moment, looking down at her, his eyes 
brimming with ecstatic laughter. 

Our elections took place yesterday,’’ he went on, 
'' and the other fellow got in. I tried my best, 
but they wouldn’t have me. They have cast me out of 
Eden, you see — and now ” — dropping his voice as 
he drew her towards him — ‘‘ now I want my Eve.” 

'' Cast out of Eden, Mark! ” repeated Erin, tremu- 
lously. O Mark, say rather ‘entering in!’ This 
land of mine, in spite of its sorrows, has always been 
to me a Paradise.” 

There was a moment’s silence, and then Mark bent 
his face, laughing still, but very tender, to hers, so 
lovely in its eager expectancy. 

“ Where Eve is/' he said, “ must always be my 
Paradise! ” 


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crc 


16 




OGT 19 1898 


4 





